


(trade your) broken wings

by bloomsoftly



Series: wings [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bechdel Test Pass, But mostly fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Healing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomsoftly/pseuds/bloomsoftly
Summary: Bucky wonders if she’ll react like all the others when she recognizes who he is; as much as he understands it, he’s so tired of the fear.She doesn’t.-or-the development of a relationship through trust and food. lots of food.***(fic is rated T except for the last chapter, which is rated E.)





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote a thing. This is very different from the P&P soulmate oneshot. Fluff will come later! :)
> 
> A million props to InAmberClad for keeping me on track. You're the best, bro.  
> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> As always, I'd love feedback.

Bucky’s hand is trembling.

Ever aware of Bucky’s mental and emotional state, Steve eyes him with concern. Bucky’s time in Wakanda had painstakingly removed the last of the Hydra programming in his brain; after decades of Hydra brainwashing overriding his free will, he is no longer a slave. Even so, Bucky still gets caught in his own head most of the time. According to Sam, he suffers from good ol’ shell shock. But that isn’t right either—these days they call it PTSD. What is with this generation and abbreviating everything, anyway? Steve joked with him just last week that Bucky and Sam are frenemies.

“It’s slang, Buck. A mix of friend and enem—”

“I know what it means, you punk.” Truth be told, the term makes Bucky incredibly uncomfortable. His understanding of _enemy_ is too steeped in blood and Hydra for him to ever be comfortable using that word as a joke, or to describe someone he cares about. Although Bucky and Sam don’t always get along, he really does appreciate Steve’s partner. It’s because of Sam that Bucky’s flashbacks have decreased in both intensity and frequency since moving to the tower. So if he still gets lost in his thoughts, swirling through his brain in a distracting, confusing tangle that refuses to come together, Sam just encourages him to have patience with himself. “Bucky, you’ve already come so far. Just take it one day at a time.”

Bucky knows that Steve and Sam have his back, and most often Natalia too. He also knows that their understanding and patience isn’t universal; things with Tony remain incredibly tense and awkward. Despite everything, Stark invited him to live in his tower when he was ready to leave Wakanda —“It’s really a public service; don’t want to leave Murder-Bot running around town unsupervised”—so Bucky knows that Tony has decided to put the past aside , at least for now. ( _Don’t think about Howard; can’t think about Howard_.) He mostly tries to stay out of the other man’s way, and Tony does the same. Bucky does everything he could to give the other man some space, and they actually went his first month in the tower without seeing each other at all. According to Sam, the fact that he uses his assassin skills to benefit another person is a sign of progress, but Bucky has a hard time believing that anything from Hydra could ever be used for good.

Considering Stark’s opinion of Bucky, it comes as a surprise when he tracks him down in the common room. “Damn it Mega Man, do you know how hard it’s been to hunt you down? It’s a shameful waste of my Genius IQ, and my AI has better things to do than track your sneaky ass down.” Bucky just stares at him, not comprehending why Stark has sought him out after all this time. “What, are you nonverbal now? Wilson didn’t mention that in his weekly ‘How-likely-is-it-that-the-deadly-assassin-will-murder-us-in-our-sleep’ report to Pep.” Bucky’s blank expression doesn’t change; if Stark wants him to be upset that Sam is reporting on Bucky’s progress, he’ll be disappointed. Bucky is dangerous and it would be foolish not to monitor him.

“No response? Nothing? Tough crowd. Fine. I need you to come down to my workshop, now. That arm is a crime against humanity—” at that, Stark actually stops and winces, as if he has finally gone too far. “Okay, forget I said that last bit. But you’re living in my tower, and I can’t have you ruining my reputation with that arm.” Seeing that Bucky still hasn’t moved, Stark gestures impatiently toward the elevator. “Let’s go, Cyborg, I haven’t got all day.” And so begins Bucky’s infrequent visits down to the science labs.

Before his trip to Stark’s lab, when he was still avoiding the man, Bucky had stuck to the Avengers-only floors of the tower almost exclusively. He’s best known as the Winter Soldier, after all—the most terrifying and menacing assassin in recent public memory. His face had been plastered all over the news during the fall of SHIELD and then again when he was framed during the UN fiasco. He’s gotten used to the idea that he’s considered a menace to the public. That doesn’t mean he enjoys the fear he inspires when he runs into civilians, though.

The fear is pungent; it has a way of creeping through the halls like smoke as he walks, tainting the atmosphere and grinding conversations to a halt. It’s acrid and clogs his throat, choking him until he can’t breathe. Over time, he took to ignoring Steve’s blatant attempts to get him to venture into public places, and refused to feel bad about it. Until Stark. After Stark ambushes Bucky about his arm and it becomes clear that Bucky can’t just hide away in his and Steve’s apartment forever, he approaches Sam for help.

Utilizing some breathing and centering techniques (courtesy of Sam), Bucky and Steve slowly embark on short trips to the lobby. Once, they even venture to a Starbucks near the tower—though why people choose to pay that much money for a sugary caffeinated drink, Bucky has no clue. The future is strange. As uncomfortable as those trips make him, though, he’d rather make them every damn day than go down to the lab floor once a month. It isn’t even the discomfort of seeing Stark that is so awful, so much as running into the other scientists on the floor. Dr. Banner is fine and he hasn’t yet met Dr. Foster (the other part of the so-called “Scientists Three”). The other scientists on the floor are terrified of Bucky, though. On good days, they flee as he and Steve approach Stark’s labs and the halls are deserted.

On worse days, the people in the hallways try to pretend they aren’t scared out of their wits. They babble to each other while giving Bucky side-eyed glances, as if he is a dangerous beast ready to maul them at any moment. For his part, Bucky returns the scientists' suspicion with equal measure. It’s a primal feeling, one he isn't able to shake. He knows that Stark wouldn't hire those kinds of scientists, knows that they aren't Hydra. But there is something about the clinical white walls and gleaming appliances that sends him back _there_. There, where he is cold, lost, and in pain and doesn't know himself or his own goddamned best friend ( _Who was he? I knew him_ ). Even worse, his hand trembles nonstop from the moment he steps out of the elevator to his arrival back on his own floor. The former sniper in him hates it—hates that he can’t control his own body, can’t hide his fear.

If he tells Steve, the punk would move heaven and earth to make sure he never has to step foot on that floor again. Steve would go to war all over again if it would mean Bucky never has another nightmare. But he won't tell Steve. His best friend almost died trying to save him from himself and then spent months of sleepless nights searching for him. Then he went and sacrificed one of his few solid friendships to help Bucky, to save him again.

It’s because of Steve that Bucky can't, won't give up. So he says nothing about the lab coats, the icy white walls, the cold marble floors. He struggles through each and every one of the lab visits. But those are his worst days. He gets so lost in his head that he stumbles through it all on autopilot, barely functioning, and it always takes several sleepless nights for him to recover. Steve and Sam have learned not to touch him unless absolutely necessary; his flinches are violent and unpredictable.

  


* * *

 

He can't say what it is about her that draws his attention; it’s a lab visit like any other. They’ve already done the awkward bit with Stark, which is made even worse when for all intents and purposes Bucky is mute during the trip. He knows his reactions are noticeable and alarming, because even Stark is concerned—the same tuneup process on his arm takes less and less time each visit. (Even lost in his own head, Bucky’s instincts ensure that he catalogs at least two things at all times: basic threats and the passage of time.) Steve’s worried glances get increasingly furtive as he ushers them toward the elevator.

All he knows is that one minute he’s lost in a tangled web of half-formed thoughts, trying desperately not to remember (those coats, that cold), and the next…he isn’t. It’s like he snaps back into himself, and he’s hyper-aware. What strikes him first is that the young woman just exiting the elevator isn’t afraid, even though she should be. She’s altogether oblivious as she stumbles out of the elevator. Fiddling with her Stark Industries badge, she doesn’t even look up as she enters the door to the labs. She just huffs a breath to push her long, curly brown hair out of her face, sloshing the liquid inside her portable travel mug. The logo on the side indicates that it’s from Starbucks (does the whole world run on that place these days?).

In a colorfully patterned (so bright it almost hurts) oversized sweater and skintight jeans, she doesn’t look anything like the other scientists who work on this floor. Bucky’s not sure he’ll ever understand the clothing that people wear these days, but he knows that agents don’t dress like that either. And her spatial awareness is pitiful—she still hasn’t noticed either Steve or Bucky, even though the distance between them has shrunk to less than fifteen feet. If they were Hydra insurgents, she’d be dead before she even knew they were there. Especially considering it’s clear that she isn’t trained in any sort of combat—she lacks the precise control of her body parts and movements required for that. She is all loose limbs and expansive motions as she moves down the hall toward them. Still, there’s something about her that draws his attention.

He recognizes the exact moment she becomes aware of other people in the hall; there’s a little stutter in her step and a slight hitch in her breath from surprise. Bucky wonders if she’ll react like all the others when she recognizes who he is; as much as he understands it, he’s so tired of the fear. She doesn’t, gracing both Steve and Bucky with a genuine smile.

“Good morning, Miss Lewis.” Steve, not yet noticing that Bucky is more engaged than usual, is still focused on getting Bucky to the elevator. But they both know his mama would’ve had his hide for being impolite and not greeting a dame, so he pauses for a second in his determined rush away from the labs. “Steve, it’s Darcy. And you won’t like how I remind you next time, so you better get it right,” she chirped, winking at him. “Sure thing, Darcy.” Steve’s face flushes a bit in response.

Remembering his manners, Steve adds, “I don’t think you’ve met Bucky yet, have you? Buck, this is Darcy. She works with Dr. Foster.” Bucky’s not sure if there’s a proper way to introduce one’s formerly-brainwashed amnesiac best friend, but Steve always gives it a valiant effort.

Bucky vaguely remembers that he used to be good at this, talking to pretty dames. She meets his eyes, says “Hello,” and smiles again, this time just for him. But though he’s aware and focused on her, his mouth just won’t come unglued. His lips twitch in something that passes more as a grimace than a smile, and he gives her a tiny nod of acknowledgment. It’s pitiful, but it’s the best he can do. Next to him, Steve looks as though he might burst from pride, so at least someone recognizes the effort. Miss Lewis doesn’t look phased by his less than stellar greeting, though. And she doesn’t reach out to shake his hand or touch him, which he appreciates.

She opens her mouth to say something, and for the first time in a long time Bucky finds himself looking forward to a possible conversation with someone who isn’t Steve or Sam. Before he can dwell on that revelation any further, and before she can express her thought, there’s frantic shouting from down the hall.

Bucky jolts, but Steve’s already got a firm grip on his shoulder and is talking him down. “Nothing to worry about, Buck. That’s just Dr. Foster. I think she might be looking for you, Darcy.” Miss Lewis rolls her eyes and nods. “Yeah, sorry about the shouting. I’ve been gone for over an hour but I’m pretty sure she just realized I wasn’t there. I better go see what the boss lady wants.” With a little half wave, she says goodbye. “It was great to see you again, Steve. Nice to meet you, Bucky!”

She sweeps by him with a parting smile, already calling out to Dr. Foster in reply. He absently wonders if his erratic behavior drove her away. But as she goes, she passes by just close enough that her oversized sweater brushes against his prosthetic arm. Close enough that he can smell her shampoo—a hint of rosemary.

He doesn’t flinch, and neither does she. And like an epiphany, he realizes he wants to know Darcy Lewis.

He and Steve take the last steps toward the elevator, though it doesn’t seem as monumental a task as it did before. As they step in, Steve murmurs “I’m glad you’re doing okay, Buck,” flicking a quick glance down at his hand. It had stopped shaking.


	2. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of encounters in which Darcy is science-drunk and Bucky rolls his eyes. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all are the absolute greatest. I’m so glad you liked the first chapter!
> 
> Muchas gracias a InAmberClad, como siempre.  
> All errors are my own, como siempre.
> 
> Also, I am not an expert on Russia or astrophysics. I am proficient with google, though. Sorry for any mistakes!

“Come on, Janie, we’re almost to the elevator,” Darcy huffs, mostly to herself. Jane hears her only seventy-five percent of the time on good days, and right now she’s nearly comatose. They’ve spent the past several days collating data on a rare, unexplained phenomena and Jane has been awake for over 72 hours. Darcy only made it a measly 48 before throwing in the towel and crashing for a couple of hours, but that’s alright. Despite years of living as Jane’s personal shadow, projects like these still go way over her head. Ask her to collect, catalog, or analyze the data they gather from the universe and she’s golden. But the groundbreaking, Nobel prize-winning theories? That’s all Jane.

On days like these, her job is literally just to try and keep them both alive and somewhat functioning. So here she is, hauling Jane down the hall toward the elevator sometime during Day 3, after Jane face-planted directly onto her cluttered desk. If their lab wasn’t so ‘mad scientist chic’ at the moment, Darcy would probably just let Jane curl up on the lumpy couch and recharge a bit. It’s generally much easier to coax Jane back up to her apartment if she’s slightly less sleep-deprived, and a few hours would do the trick.

Unfortunately for Darcy, whose back is feeling the strain of lugging an extra body around, the lab looks like a bomb went off. Unconsciousness and fragile astronomy equipment don’t mix; Jane could accidentally get hurt or, worse, break some of her precious equipment and lose all her data. If that happened Darcy would be out of a job and a best friend, and then where would she be? (Seriously, don’t fuck with Jane’s data.) Much better to be lugging Jane around like a drunken baby, swaying through the halls and trying not to bang up any body parts too badly. As Jane stumbles and knocks her into the wall for at least the sixth time, though, Darcy wonders if sleeping it off at the bomb site might be the better option. She can feel bruises already forming down her left side, and they’re only just now getting to the elevator bay.

In all seriousness, Darcy acknowledges to herself that she probably shouldn’t be joking about bombs or explosions or anything villainy-related near Stark tower. With the various superheroes floating around—sometimes literally—it’s only a matter of time until someone’s nemesis decides to blow the damn thing sky high. And that really should be a terrifying, pants-wetting thought, but Darcy’s life took a left turn into crazy-town six years ago and never went back. It’s worth thinking about, though—maybe Darcy should bite the bullet and accept Natasha’s increasingly-insistent offers to train her. Gingerly probing a sore spot on her ribs and eyeing Jane’s tiny frame ruefully, Darcy reflects that she’s incredibly unlikely to last even five seconds in a fight. And as efficient as they are, there’s no way in hell that even the Avengers can rescue her that fast.

So even though getting her ass kicked daily by a world-renowned superhero isn’t exactly high on Darcy’s bucket list, she’ll just have to suck it up. To be honest, she’s always known that eventually she will have to improve her self-defense; it’s part and parcel of being a part of Natasha’s life. The spy just doesn’t do vulnerability—she methodically avoids any weakness that could possibly be exploited by an enemy. Darcy knows her worth; she’s badass and awesome in many ways. But she’s under no illusions on this front—she’s not someone you look at and think, “Oh, I definitely want her on my team during a zombie apocalypse.” Hence Natasha’s bugging about the training. And she’s only gotten more persistent since Sergeant Barnes moved to the tower, though Darcy is pretty sure he and Natasha are friends (or at least friendly? There’s definitely some history there).

But when Darcy mentioned a couple of weeks ago that she had finally met the newest arrival, Natasha did that thing where her eyebrow shot up at the same time as her face settled into an unnaturally still mask. “Oh?” With warning bells clanging in her brain, Darcy knew that she had to phrase her response carefully, or Barnes might end up flayed alive.

“Yeah, he looked like he was struggling a bit. I mean, not that I blame him what with the whole evil scientists and then being in a lab environment again thing. But he seemed polite. Well, he didn’t say anything but he did nod when I said hello and then I think he kind of smiled at me?” Darcy rattled off, hoping that Natasha could tell that she was being honest—it was true that she had only met Barnes the once (and only for like 5 seconds at that), but surely the man had been through enough already in his life. He didn’t need Natasha going all protective mama bear over some imagined slight to her Darcy. And he really had been surprisingly polite. Especially considering she was almost positive he had been on his way into or out of a panic attack when they met. Staring at her hard for a very long moment, Natasha finally nodded and let it go.

They haven’t spoken about Barnes since, but Natasha has been hassling her about self-defense training much more persistently. All else equal, Darcy thinks she’d rather have bruises from training with Natasha than hauling Jane around after a science bender. And from the data they’ve been collecting and analyzing, it looks like she has a lot more bruises coming her way. And of course, right now Jane refuses to make it easy on her.

“Darcy…we gotta go back…gotta turn on the laser ablation…solid-particle beam apparatus. Cosmic dust particles…really important.” Jane half-heartedly lifts her head from Darcy’s shoulder, glaring in the general direction of the elevator doors. “Can’t go to sleep yet. Breakthrough…” Darcy grunts in acknowledgment, bodily lifting Jane the last few steps into the elevator. Propping Jane up against the wall with a stabilizing hand on her shoulder, Darcy whips out her phone and types furiously, replying, “Don’t worry, boss lady, I’m making a note right now. Cosmic dust particles, laser ablation apparatus. Your breakthrough will still be there when you wake up and are less likely to blow us both up.”

She may joke about Jane’s science daze, but Darcy would do anything to help Jane with her one true love: the pursuit of scientific knowledge. Her best friend is a literal genius, and Jane has epiphanies about her research at all hours of the day. So when Janie is too busy or too tired (or sometimes too drunk, even) to write her thoughts down, Darcy does it for her. Reaching up to pat Darcy’s cheek—and missing completely, smacking her on the nose instead—Jane slurs, “You’re the absolute greatest, Darce, you know that? You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

Just like one too many Mexican martinis, sleep-deprivation makes Jane super cuddly and affectionate. “I love you too, Janie. Now let’s get to sleep so that we can live to conquer science tomorrow.” Slinging Jane’s arm back around her shoulder and jostling her a bit to get a better grip, Darcy aims at the ceiling, “Friday, could you take us to our floor, please?”

“Right away, Miss Lewis.” Darcy’s glad that the elevator trip doesn’t take very long. Any more than 30 seconds and she and Jane would probably be puddles on the floor. As it is, she feels sluggish when the elevator glides to a stop and the doors open on the sunlit corridor of their floor. Sun glare isn’t exactly conducive to scientific breakthroughs or the regulation of equipment temperature, so the science floors are sadly bereft of natural sunlight. After three days of harsh fluorescent lighting, the sun feels like a balm on her skin. If she and Jane weren’t in such a desperate need for sleep, Darcy might be tempted to curl up in front of the windows like a cat.

Instead, she tightens her grip on Jane’s ribs, readjusts her hold on the arm slung over Darcy’s shoulder, and trudges out of the car. “Come on, Jane, just a little farther. I know you want to fall face-first onto that cloud Stark calls a bed.” Darcy pauses a second to readjust her grip on her best friend, sneaking a glance at Jane’s face to find that she’s drifting off. “I swear, only you could fall asleep while upright and actually walking down the hall. If I could find a way to bottle that shit up and sell it, I’d make a fortu—oh!” She’s more surprised than she should be to run into Steve and Barnes; Darcy and Jane do share an apartment on the same floor as the common room, after all.

(Say what you will about Jane, but she is a stellar negotiator. The first time Stark Industries offered to fund Jane’s research and move her to Manhattan, she turned him down flat. “Please tell Mr. Stark thank you, but what use do I have for one of the most light-polluted cities on Earth? I’m an astrophysicist.”

The next time there was an offer, Stark came to London himself. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’re a genius. I’m a genius. I recognize talent when I see it, and I like your rebellion. I heard the assholes in your field wouldn’t fund your research for years and are now trying to take credit for it. Want revenge?”

“Look, Mr. Stark, I really appreciate your offer, but I don’t want a job based on the superhero that is my ex-boyfriend. What use do you have for an astrophysicist anyway?”

Stark wasn’t fazed. “Don’t worry, Mighty Mouse, I know all about trying to get out of someone else’s shadow. And I’m not sure if you heard, but I literally flew a nuke into space a couple of years ago. So, astrophysics is actually a lot more relevant to my day job than you’d expect.” Jane wanted time to think about it. Stark didn’t want to wait, but Jane wouldn’t budge.

The third time SI offered to fund Jane, it was really just a formality. Stark had already flown Jane (and Darcy, because Janie was loyal and wouldn’t go without her) out to Manhattan for a tour of the labs. They’d been there for a couple of days when Jane laid it all on the line. “Tony, I would love to work here. Your labs are amazing, resources basically unlimited, and cross-collaborative efforts have the potential to change my entire field.” Before Stark could preen too much, she added, “But there’s no way Darcy and I can afford to live in New York. London was bad enough, and we weren’t even paying for our own apartment. Plus, Darcy has been with me for 7 years and 2 global disasters and I’ve never been able to give her anything but room and board. She deserves better.”

Stark didn’t even bat an eye at Jane’s challenging stare. “Already settled, Foster. You’ll stay in the tower, and you and your minion will have a salary on top of the research funding. Good? Good. Pep will set you up with the paperwork.”

The ridiculous man insisted on setting them up near the top of the tower, in the area generally reserved for Avengers. All he would say on the matter was, “I like to keep my friends close. Plus, I might need you to save my life one day, Doc.”

“I’m not that kind of doctor, Tony.”)

But in the eight months Darcy and Jane have been living in the tower, she’s only ever seen Natasha in the common room, and that’s usually just because she wants to spend time with Darcy and Jane. Although, it makes sense that there wouldn’t be too many Avengers family dinners after the big rift that formed between them a year and a half ago. All in all, perhaps it isn’t so strange for Darcy to be startled when Steve and Barnes exit the common room kitchen as she and Jane are passing by on their way to their apartment.

The twin looks of concern throw Darcy for a second until she remembers that she’s towing a comatose body down the hall. Looking extremely unsure of the situation, Steve steps forward cautiously and asks, “Darcy? Is everything okay? Do you need some help?” He tentatively reaches out toward Jane, but lets his hand fall when Darcy pulls back.

“Oh no, we’re fine. Really. I appreciate the offer, but Jane and I have this agreement. We take bodily integrity very seriously, you see. So, if one of us is unconscious, it’s up to the other to make sure that no one touches us without permission.” Barnes throws her a sharp look partway through her explanation, but Darcy ignores it. “Not that I think you would ever harm Jane!” She chatters on, trying to break the strange atmosphere, “it’s just that she trusts me to take care of her while she’s unconscious, and she can’t really give consent right now. So, you know, thanks but no thanks. I really, really appreciate the offer though.” She grins at Steve, trying to show him that it really isn’t personal.

He just looks at her contemplatively for a moment, an earnest expression on his handsome face. With a quick sideways glance at Barnes, Steve replies quietly, “I completely understand. I’m glad the two of you have a system.”

Surprising everyone, Barnes shifts a little and asks, “Can we at least get the door for you or somethin’?” He’s clearly uncomfortable at having spoken, but pushes on. “You look like your hands are kinda full, that’s all.” Darcy is glad that her initial estimation of Barnes as a polite, if reserved, man is proving true—she turns her smile on him and agrees gratefully. “Yes, please, that’s very nice of you. Janie’s tiny but somehow, I’ve still got a million bruises. We’re just down the hall, there, at the end.”

Darcy gestures with her free hand in the direction of the apartment, and they amble on together. With the two men for company, the door doesn’t seem so far away anymore and she thinks she can manage. “So, what brings the two of you to this floor? The only person I’ve ever seen in the common room is Natasha, and that still isn’t very often.”

Interestingly, Steve’s face flushes a little (who know that Captain America could blush so adorably?), and he raises a hand to rub the back of his neck bashfully. “Actually, Natasha mentioned the other day that she has a secret stash of Russian sweet cakes and pastries in the tower. Bucky had a craving, and, well.” Now it’s Barnes’ turn to fidget. Steve continues, “We assumed that she wouldn’t keep them in her apartment, because Clint and his crazy dog would eat them all. I remembered that she comes down here to see you pretty often, so we thought we’d check.”

“And? Did you hit the jackpot?” Darcy already knows the answer; Natasha has shared her precious ptichye moloko and raspberry vatrushka with Darcy on more than one occasion, usually with a bottle of зеленая марка (Natasha’s favorite vodka). If she didn’t already know, though, Steve would still give it away. That man clearly cannot sneak to save his life, and there’s a dab of raspberry on his cheek…and is that a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth? Barnes is slightly better; there’s at least no physical evidence to betray him. But he has the telltale satisfaction of someone who has completely satiated a sweet tooth.

Steve’s hand creeps back up to his neck. “Yeah, we did. We actually ate a little more than we expected—” At this understatement, Barnes snorts incredulously, “—and there are actually none left.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and thrusts the screen at Darcy, amping up the wattage of his boy scout expression exponentially. “Can you help?”

Darcy stops walking and shifts Jane a little, leaning forward to peer at Steve’s phone. It’s a text from Natasha, only five words long:

 

_I know what you did._

 

Now it’s Darcy’s turn to snort. She chuckles as they move forward again, and can’t resist teasing the two men a little bit. “Oh shit, you’re in trouble now. You better find a way to fix it literally right now or you are dead men. Natasha without her sweets is like…” Fumbling for an appropriate comparison, Darcy gives up and finishes, “Well, there’s nothing really like it. It was nice knowing you, boys.” In perfect unison (and since when does Barnes have a Grade-A puppy dog look? That’s completely unfair), they turn their big blue eyes on her plaintively. “Alright, alright, turn off the cute. I’ll help you out.” Before they can so much as blink, Darcy adds, “But you will owe me. Big. An undisclosed favor at an undisclosed date and time. Capiche?”

Steve nods with mock solemnity. “Anything.” Barnes says nothing, rolling his eyes at them both.

“Good. Friday, can you please place a rush order for the sweets that Natasha likes at the usual places? The sooner they get here, the better.” She winks cheerily at the super soldiers and takes the final few steps to the apartment door. “Could you also unlock my door, Friday? My hands are a little full right now.”

“Right away, Miss Lewis.” The door clicks as it unlocks. “Additionally, the order for Agent Romanov has been placed and should be here by end of day.”

Exhaustion sets in suddenly, and Darcy just hopes she can get Jane to bed before collapsing into her own. Still, she really appreciated Steve and Bucky’s company, and is grateful for their thoughtfulness. Leaning lightly against the door frame, she musters up a tired grin for her companions. “In all seriousness, thanks for walking with me. It’s been an intense couple of days in the lab, and it was really nice to spend some time with people who aren’t scientists.”

Barnes just nods and stretches past her to push open the door, allowing Darcy and Jane to get into their apartment. Casting his eyes between Darcy and his best friend, Steve responds for both of them. “The pleasure was all ours, Darcy. Thank you for keeping us off Natasha’s kill list; we appreciate it. And the common room is really nice—Buck and I should probably stop being such hermits all the time and come down here more often. Maybe we’ll see you around again?”

Steve casts her a significant look, which is strange. Darcy is too fatigued and sluggish to think any more about it—she just gives him a confused smile, nods, and offers both men a sleepy goodbye.

Shuffling through the doorway with Jane, Darcy doesn’t look back as she kicks the door shut behind her. She hazily guides them through the living room and down the hall to Jane’s room, working mostly on autopilot. Gently setting Jane in the middle of her bed, Darcy moves around to the end so that she can remove her friend’s shoes.

“Darce?” Jane croaks, not even bothering to open her eyes. “Did we just get a super soldier escort from the labs?”

Darcy pauses in the middle of unlacing Jane’s boots. She chuckles, “You know what, Janie? I think maybe we kinda did.” Jane just hums in acknowledgment, already falling back asleep.

After she finishes removing Jane’s boots, Darcy pulls the covers up to keep her best friend warm. Then, Darcy straightens up and staggers across the hall to her own room. She flops face first onto the bed, not even bothering to shed her own footwear. Sleep is already pulling her under, and she thinks no more on super soldiers or their mysterious words.

 

* * *

 

It’s 7:00 AM when Darcy walks back into the front lobby of Stark tower. Her gut feeling was right about that data—she and Jane have been up several days straight—again—brainstorming and generally losing their minds over data trends. So instead of prepping for work after a full-night’s rest like a normal person, Darcy is coming back to the lab after a power nap and an emergency Starbucks run. She hasn’t combed her hair in at least 24 hours, her makeup is four days old and probably smeared from her nap, and she can’t exactly recall the last time she remembered to put deodorant on. So of course that’s when she runs into the super soldier twins. Again.

It just has to happen on the day she looks like an extra from The Walking Dead. Actually, Darcy thinks she might be acting a little like a zombie, too; she’s so out of it that she actually almost misses them altogether. She’s focused on putting one step in front of another, dreamily captivated by the glossy black and white marble floors of the lobby and the way her footsteps echo as she crosses the floor. They are so shiny she wonders if she could use the floor as a mirror, then decides she probably doesn’t want to see her reflection right now anyway. Caught in her musings, it takes Darcy some time to come to the realization that someone is calling her name. Still sleepy, she gradually raises her head in confusion and looks around the lobby.

“Darcy!” Steve’s tone is sharper now, edged slightly with concern, as he and Barnes eat up the distance from the elevator to where she was stuck admiring of the floor. “Are you alright? I’ve already said your name a couple of times.”

“Whoops. Yeah, we’ve been on another science bender.” Darcy salutes the men with her coffee cup, miraculously managing not to slosh the hot liquid on her hand. “We’ve been up for a couple of days now analyzing some new data, so Jane and I are both a little worse for wear.”

“That’s the second time in two weeks that you ladies’ve been up for several days straight. Is that normal ’round here?” Okay, Darcy has a couple of questions: 1) since when does Barnes initiate conversation? That’s definitely new; and 2) is it just her or is his Brooklyn accent stronger than it was the last time they spoke? Because that accent is completely unfair.

For a moment, Darcy is struck dumb by how unfairly attractive Barnes is; it’s honestly the first time she’s noticed. Every student attending public school in the last 75 years learns that Bucky Barnes was an incredibly attractive human being—it’s obvious even in the black and white photos of high school history books, for goodness’ sake. And despite all he’s been through, the man living in the tower is definitely Sergeant Barnes.

Darcy’s seen him a couple of times since the comatose Jane incident—he and Steve have been spending more time in the common room since that afternoon. In their previous conversations, though, she never experienced a visceral punch of attraction in her gut when she looked at him; he just seemed too lost and alone for that. Something has changed, apparently, because she’s certainly feeling it now. There’s something about the scruff, the clingy Henley he’s wearing, and the slightly too-long hair that he keeps pushing behind his ear that just does it for her.

Shaking herself of inappropriate thoughts, Darcy answers, “Science waits for no woman, Sergeant Barnes. And unfortunately, Jane is waiting on me right now so I’ve got to head back into the fray.” She gestures with her thumb toward the elevators and takes a couple of steps in that direction. “Janie’s not exactly the most understanding of bosses on days like these, if you catch my drift. I’ll see y’all later?”

Before she can take another step, Steve interjects, “Actually, Sam just texted and asked me if I’d like to meet him at Starbucks before he heads to an appointment at the VA. I know how much you hate that place, Buck; maybe you could ride with Darcy up to the labs and make sure she doesn’t fall asleep on her way back?” With that sassy little comment, Steve tosses a wink at Darcy. Turning back to Barnes, he finishes, “I could just meet you back at the apartment when I get back.”

At first, Darcy thinks Barnes is going to refuse. He has a really hard time on the lab floor, she remembers. He surprises her, though, when he just smirks at Steve (a tiny one, but it’s definitely there) and replies, “Yeah, punk, I can do that. We don’t want Dr. Foster to miss a scientific breakthrough because her colleague was too tired and fell asleep in the elevator.” Shifting toward Darcy, he meets her eyes and sweeps his right arm in front of him. “After you, Miss Lewis.”

Darcy pauses mid-step. “I’m not going anywhere if you call me that, Sergeant Barnes. If Captain America can’t get away with it, neither can you.” Not caring that she is planted right in the middle of the lobby, Darcy glares at him expectantly.

Barnes rolls his eyes, exaggeratingly making the same gesture as before—this time clearly mocking her. “After you, Darcy. And you can’t call me Sergeant Barnes, neither. It’s Bucky, or James.” Together they step toward the elevator, and he pushes the call button. Darcy’s so busy sneaking glances at Barnes—James—that the ding of the elevator’s arrival startles her, making her jump slightly. James gestures for Darcy to enter the cab first, and as she presses the correct floor number he offers quietly, “If I make you uncomfortable, I can take another elevator up.”

“What? No!” Darcy sputters, cocking her head in confusion. James won’t meet her eyes, instead pretending to examine the opulent gold wall of the elevator. She thinks back through the last several minutes, trying to figure out what prompted his comment. Why on earth would he think she feared him? They had literally just been teasing each other—oh, _shit_. The staring. Of course the former assassin would notice that; it’s not like she was being subtle—not to him, anyway. And when people stare at him, she doubts it usually means anything good. Not that there is any way in hell she'll tell him that she stares because she can’t get over how ungodly attractive he is (and how she had just noticed it for the first time less than 15 minutes ago).

“I’m really sorry for staring—I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just…you look different than you did last time we spoke.” Rushing to clarify, she adds, “Lighter, somehow?”

At that, he swings his gaze around to meet hers. She can’t read his expression, except that there’s a tiny furrow between his eyebrow (confusion, maybe?). James doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at her. Starting to freak out now, worried that maybe she ruined this fledgling friendship before it even really got started, she sputters on. “Ugh, what an inappropriate thing to say. I’m sorry, James. And I’m sorry for staring; I honestly meant nothing by it.”

She pours everything she has into making her eyes large and round, hoping the cute will outweigh and overpower the awkwardness. For a long, inexorable moment they just stare at each other—Darcy feels like he’s reading her soul. Finally, James rolls his eyes at her and the tension is broken. With a tiny smirk and a huff (an optimistic person might consider it laughter), he breaks eye contact. All is forgiven.

Then the doors slide open and Darcy’s sweeping out on her way to the lab. Spinning on her heel, she gives him a saucy wink and a sloppy salute. “See you later, James! Thanks for the company. Sorry I subjected you to my word vomit.”

The last thing Darcy sees is James’ slightly dazed expression. The image of his slack jaw and raised eyebrows will stay with her for a long time, and she cackles all the way to Jane.

 

* * *

 

“Darcy.”

 

  
“Darcy. Doll.”

 

  
“Wha—?”

“I ain’t so good with modern technology, Darce, but I’m almost positive this is not actually how you make coffee.”

She’s like one of Pavlov’s dogs—as soon as James says the word coffee her nose starts twitching, her mouth watering in anticipation of sweet, caffeinated goodness. But something isn’t right—the heavenly smell of freshly-brewed coffee is distinctly missing from the air, even though she remembers putting a pot on to brew before sitting down for a minute. Raising her head from where she’s been resting it on the cool marble surface of the common room’s breakfast bar, Darcy suspiciously sniffs the air like a hound dog with her eyes still closed. Nope, the distinct aroma of rich scent of roasted coffee beans is clearly absent.

A choked huff that sounds suspiciously like a smothered laugh reminds Darcy that she is not, in fact, alone. She finally opens her eyes, blearily casting a glare in the general direction of the noise. It’s James. Of course—that man always seems to be around when she’s sleep-deprived and at her absolute worst.

As always, he looks fantastic and incredibly alert at—Darcy checks the oven clock—8 in the morning. It’s unfair, especially because he’s been rocking the man bun for the last week or so. No woman should have to be tested by that bad boy aesthetic first thing in the morning, especially after staying up all night for science. James breaks her perusal and general appreciation of his form by shaking the object in his hand; it’s the carafe from the coffee pot, and it’s full of…water?

“Umm, James. I know you’re new to modern coffee makers, but you know that isn’t actually how you make coffee, right? The water goes in the back of the machine, not in the carafe.” She smiles at him encouragingly.

James just stares at her for a moment, then lets out a short bark of laughter—she’s not sure which of them is more surprised by it. For a moment, she’s transfixed by the way his smile transforms his face; it’s a beautiful sight. Both his smile and his laughter are fleeting, falling away quickly as if they feel foreign on his face. Amusement still shines in his eyes, though. “Thanks for the tip, Darcy. There’s just one problem—I didn’t put the water in like this, you did.” With a smirk, he teases her, “Maybe you should be the one getting a lesson on how modern coffeemakers work.”

Darcy flushes a brilliant red. “Alright, I completely walked into that one, I’ll give you that.” Turning away from her, James pours the water into the coffeemaker properly, and sets it to brew a pot. Trying to save some face, she asks, “Would it be an acceptable excuse if I told you that I’ve been up all night again in the pursuit of science?”

He pretends to mull it over for a second. “Well if you were in the pursuit of science, I might accept it. And I might even share some of this delicious coffee I’m making with you, since you were up all night for such a noble endeavor.” With that line, he turns to snag some coffee cups—picking a travel mug for her, and she’s caught by his thoughtfulness again. While his back is turned, she lets her eyes drift over him. Every time she sees him, he looks more at ease; living here, with friends and under his own control, is clearly good for him. Darcy feels an unexpected, unsettling rush of warmth and pride as she looks at him.

As James turns in her direction, Darcy averts her eyes for a moment; she’s sure that her feelings are written all over her face. When she turns back, he has the fully-poured travel mug held in her direction. He looks almost shy, as if she might not take his offering. Only thinking to set his mind at ease, Darcy reaches out to take the mug and swallows a giant sip. Briefly closing her eyes in pleasure at the taste, her eyes pop open as she realizes— “You remembered how I like my coffee?” It’s perfectly made, with an obscene amount of cream and no sugar. He rubs the back of his neck momentarily—a tell, Darcy realizes—and only nods.

They spend another few minutes together, drinking their coffee in silence. It’s a comfortable sort of quiet, just enjoying each other’s company, and Darcy is mildly disappointed when she realizes it’s time for her to return to Jane and science.

 

* * *

 

After six weeks, four days, and seventeen hours, Jane and Darcy have finally collected all the data they need to explore Jane’s new astrophysical theory. Their work is far from done, but at least they can return to a slightly more regular schedule. Jane left the lab before Darcy; once it became clear that the only work left for the evening was tidying up and saving backups of their work, Darcy encouraged her to head home and rest. One of Jane’s biggest strengths is also a weakness, and her tendency to overlook everything (including food, drink, and sleep) in the name of scientific pursuit often leaves her drained for days at the end of a project. Darcy’s the opposite—she is often energized at a project’s end, and going to sleep immediately is almost impossible, no matter how tired she is.

It doesn’t help that for nigh on seven weeks she and Jane have had no social life whatsoever. She didn’t see Natasha at all during that time; and if Steve and James didn’t pop up in the common room every few days or so she wouldn’t have seen any Avengers at all. The women also haven’t been able to have Taco Tuesday for six weeks in a row, a time-honored tradition for Darcy, Jane, and Natasha.

Closing the lab door behind her, Darcy pauses to make sure she hears the telltale click of the lock sliding into place. As she strides toward the elevator, Darcy pulls her phone out of her pocket to check the time. The screen glows mockingly at her, revealing that it is 2:00 AM—technically a Wednesday now, meaning they have officially missed seven Taco Tuesdays in a row. Completely unacceptable, really, and Darcy knows that Jane and Natasha will agree.

Feeling jittery with lingering adrenaline over a project well done, Darcy briefly considers leaving the tower to go grab a drink and be social in the outside world. She rejects the idea almost immediately; she may be feeling energetic now, but she hasn’t gotten consistent or sufficient sleep in the last month and a half. She’s relatively young, but she’s not stupid; she’ll stay in the tower where she knows she’ll be safe if she passes out.

The elevator dings as it arrives on her floor. Darcy decides to snag the pint of rocky road ice cream she keeps hidden in the common room freezer—in a tower full of fitness nuts and billionaires, no one touches frozen vegetables—and put on a movie. It looks like someone may have beaten her to the punch, though; there’s a glow emanating from the common room TV. Ignoring the cooking show displayed in full HD on the wall, Darcy focuses instead on the recognizable mop of hair peeking over the top of the couch.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you better not be eating my rocky road ice cream. That’s a friendship deal-breaker, you know.” As she moves around the couch, Darcy realizes that tonight is not a night for teasing. James holds up the bowl of fruit he was cradling in his lap, giving no verbal response to her joke. Examining him, Darcy can see why—his face is haggard and worn, his eyes full of remembered pain. For the second time since Darcy’s met him, James looks overwhelmed by decades of torture and neglect.

Much softer, Darcy asks, “Would you rather be alone right now? I can leave.” She points her thumb over her shoulder, as if he doesn’t know where her apartment is. Awkward and unsure how to help—if he wants help at all—she just stands there.

After a moment, James shakes his head decisively and jerks his head toward the opposite end of the couch. He’s clearly not in the right head space for verbal communication, which is fine with her. Following his cue, Darcy makes herself comfortable at the opposite end of the couch. She leaves ample space between them but doesn’t hug the far edge either.

Realizing that they’re still watching the cooking show on mute, Darcy tilts her head toward the screen and suggests, “Do you mind if I put something else on?” James shakes his head.

“Okay, what should we watch? I’m thinking something cute and fluffy. How about Zootopia?” James just looks at her blankly. “It’s an animated movie about a bunny cop who is trying to solve a case and becomes best friends with a fox con-artist.” If anything, James looks even more confused. He quirks his eyebrow at her, shrugging, and rolls his hand in a whatever you want motion.

“Friday, could you please play Zootopia?”

As the lights dim and the opening credits roll across the screen, Darcy looks down to find James’ hand proffering the bowl of plums he had been munching on when she walked in. Grinning at him, she takes a couple. They sit in silence, enjoying the movie and each other’s companionship. Feeling warm and safe, Darcy eventually drifts off to sleep.

 

  
When Darcy wakes up, sometime around 7:00 on Wednesday morning, the TV is off and James is nowhere to be found. For having slept on the common room couch for hours, Darcy is surprisingly warm and comfortable. Looking down, Darcy realizes why—James covered her with a soft, fluffy blanket sometime before he left. It’s beautiful and reminds her of New Mexico, with a multi-colored pattern of rich blues, greens, and reds. She loves it.

Darcy prepares to make the trek back to her apartment, ready to sleep a few more hours before getting up for good. As she moves to sit up, she notices a white piece of paper on the coffee table. James left her a note?

_I didn’t touch you at all, I promise. -JBB_

Darcy’s first reaction is pure jealousy; James’ penmanship is precise and gorgeous. Not exactly a rational response, she knows, but it’s seven in the morning and she’ll cut herself some slack.

Her second thought is: ‘Didn't touch me? Does he not think I trust him?’ It takes her a second to remember the conversation she had with Steve about bodily autonomy that day with Jane. Darcy is impressed that James even remembers that, but then again she really shouldn’t be surprised. If there’s one man in the entire world who understands the desire to be in complete control of his own body and mind, it’s James Buchanan Barnes. Still, Darcy’s impressed by his attempt to put her mind at ease. She’s also curious to realize that she doesn’t even worry about it; she trusts him.

And the next time Darcy sees him, she’ll make sure James knows that.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky and Steve return from their workout in the gym later that morning, they find a note taped to the apartment door. Bucky can make out the loopy scrawl from down the hallway.

 

_I wasn’t worried._

_P.S. Writing notes has fallen out of fashion. All the cool kids are texting these days. You should try it sometime._

_P.P.S. Please forgive my handwriting. Excellent penmanship has become one of those skills that's a bygone of eras past._

_-D_

 

Beneath her initial, she had scrawled her phone number.

  
Steve says nothing, just claps him on the shoulder and tries to hide his huge grin, the punk.

Bucky doesn’t say anything about the note either, but it makes its way into the small box of prized possessions he keeps well-hidden in his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up if you want a recipe for Mexican martinis. They are the GREATEST. ;) ;)
> 
> on tumblr: [bloomsoftly](https://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com)


	3. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy discovers that super soldiers give the best hugs.
> 
> -and- 
> 
> Natasha kicks ass, as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I may have had to revise the chapter count. It looks like it’s just one extra right now, but we’ll see how it goes. These two cuties just don’t want to be rushed!
> 
> This chapter is still from Darcy’s perspective. Next time we’ll get back to Bucky’s POV, I promise. It’ll pick up right after where we leave off on this one. :)
> 
> I’d love to know what you think!
> 
> InAmberClad, you're the best.

Darcy is dying.

Her legs are about to give out from running so desperately, and her heart is pounding; she isn’t going to make it. Hefting a glare at Natasha, Darcy tells her so.

“Nat, I can’t do this.” It’s intended to come across as a playful whine, but falls short. She just sounds bitter.

Chancing a glance at her stoic friend (after stabilizing her arms on the sides of the treadmill so she doesn’t fall and bust her ass—she’s seen those YouTube videos), Darcy is unsurprised to find that Natasha remains unmoved.

Once she starts, Darcy can’t keep her frustration from spewing forth. “Seriously, Nat. I know you care about me and don’t want me to die or whatever, but this is sadistic. I can’t do it.” Unable to keep her voice from rising, she rants, “I’ve been busting my ass off five days a week to train with you on top of all the other shit I do. I’ve had enough and I can’t take anymore—”

A slam of Natasha’s palm against the stop button on the treadmill halts Darcy in her tracks, literally. Gesturing sharply with her chin to the mats a short distance away, Natasha waits for Darcy to step off the treadmill and head in that direction. Then, she just stares her down and waits Darcy out. That tactic works on Darcy almost too well; despite having faced this situation more than once, she’s never actually won a battle of wills against Nat. The only consolation is that Darcy’s pretty sure no one else can, either. Today, with a flood of irritation and anxiety welling in her chest, Darcy caves even quicker than usual. With a quiver of her chin, swiftly suppressed, and a defensive roll of the eyes, Darcy snaps. “What? What do you want from me, Nat?”

In contrast to Darcy’s roiling temper, Natasha stays calm. “What’s going on, milaya?”

In the face of Nat’s ever-present composure, the frustration leaves Darcy almost as swiftly as it came. Shoulders sagging, she replies, “I don’t know. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I just can’t do this today.” A little less defensively, she adds, “And I know I need to keep going anyway. Hydra or AIM or whoever isn’t going to care that I’m having a rough day.” Darcy moves to get back on the treadmill, only to be stopped by Natasha.

Indicating that Darcy should stay where she is, Natasha admits, “Yes, that is all true, and we will continue your workout in a minute.” Not finished, she adds, “But you are my friend, golubushka, and this is the first time I’ve seen you so agitated since Jane got rejected by that stuffy astrophysics journal.” As she speaks, Natasha flows gracefully into a quadriceps stretch.

Natasha pauses. Following her lead, Darcy grips her right foot with her right hand and pulls it up toward her backside. After a few seconds in which Darcy steadies herself on one foot, Nat prompts, “Did something happen in the lab?”

Taking a couple of breaths to relax her muscles and release some of her remaining tension, Darcy gives herself a few moments for introspection. A minute or two passes as she mulls over her words, but eventually Darcy confesses, “I am having some trouble in the lab, and the problem is that I don’t understand why. You remember me telling you about Dr. Allison Walters?”

As if Natasha ever forgets anything. “The woman who just finished her degree and is coming to assist you and Jane? I thought you were excited about her.” With a brow quirked in Darcy’s direction, Natasha starts stretching her other leg.

Following suit, Darcy replies, “That’s just it—I was super excited! I mean, this woman literally became an astrophysicist because of Jane, which is amazing. And women are desperately needed in STEM, so we were really happy to have her join our little science family.”

“So what’s the problem? You’re excited to have someone else in the lab, and Jane is happy to have someone to mentor.” Changing positions again, Natasha lies down on the mat and launches into a series of sit ups.

Flopping onto her back, Darcy stares at the ceiling for a second before starting her own set. “It wouldn’t be a problem, except that for some reason our new colleague can’t stand me.” There’s a pause as she pushes herself through a particularly tough sit up. “And it’s completely unwarranted, really. I want her to fit in and be happy working with Jane and me, but there’s only so much—’why don’t you let the real scientists work?’—that a girl can take.”

Before Natasha can say anything, Darcy rushes to add, “And of course I’m trying to just ignore it and give her the benefit of the doubt. But I guess it affected me more than I thought and it all just bubbled over today.” A fresh surge of irritation sweeps over her, and she used that energy to power through her last couple of sit ups.

Huffing a sweaty lock of hair away from her face, Darcy cuts her eyes over to her friend. “I’m sorry this affected my training.” She sits up to face Natasha, a flush—equal parts embarrassment and physical exertion—creeping over her cheeks. “And I apologize for snapping at you.”

Still silent, Natasha inclines her head gracefully in acknowledgment. Darcy ruefully reflects on the picture they make: as always, Nat is perfectly composed without so much as a single hair out of place, whereas Darcy is a sweaty disaster sprawled on the floor with irregular breathing and limbs akimbo. In comparison to Nat, she’s a total mess.

“Do you want my assessment of the situation?” At Darcy’s nod, Natasha proposes, “It honestly sounds like both you and Dr. Walters are having a tough time adjusting to the dynamic in the lab.” Ignoring Darcy’s sound of protest, she asserts, “No, really. I know you aren’t the one being passive aggressive, but you are used to being the only person that Jane relies on. It’s been years of just the two of you against the galaxy. Are you telling me that it’s not difficult for you to adjust at all?”

It is utterly useless to lie to Nat, so Darcy doesn’t even try. She just averts her eyes, which is confirmation enough.

“I’m not excusing Dr. Walters’ behavior, but it could be difficult for her to see exactly what role you fill in the lab. I’d give it another couple of weeks—if she’s still rude after that, then you confront her about it. But make sure you have an accurate assessment of the situation first.”

Darcy lets that sink in for a moment, then nods decisively. “This is why I love you, Nat. You always give me the kick in the ass I need, verbal or otherwise.” Grinning cheekily, she clamors to her feet and makes her way back to the treadmill.

Behind her, Natasha chuckles softly. “Good, then you won’t complain about starting your workout over. Half an hour on the treadmill, milaya. Let’s go.”

Knowing better than to argue with her, Darcy hits the start button on the treadmill. If this is the price for having a total badass as one of her best friends, she’ll gladly pay up.

 

* * *

 

Taco Tuesday is in full swing when Jane reveals that she’s been invited to consult at the University of Liege for a short-term research project. Apparently her expertise could be very useful to the scientists who recently discovered seven new terrestrial planets, and vice versa.

Jane’s second Mexican martini splashes on the floor a little as she gestures wildly, excitedly expounding on all the ways that this partnership could be good for humankind’s scientific progress. Say what you will about the demise of her relationship with Thor (and depending on the amount of alcohol consumed, there can be a lot said), but Jane’s visit to Asgard rejuvenated her drive to discover the universe’s secrets. Her competitive streak was sent into overdrive when she realized exactly how far off humans were from understanding the cosmos.

“So, Belgium. When are you leaving?” Natasha leans back against the couch, angling her body toward the doorway. These nights tend to be casual and the three of them usually sprawl across the floor, roughly circling the coffee table as they eat and drink. Natasha always positions herself strategically, though, ready to defend Jane and Darcy against any threat. Darcy thinks that if she’d been through the same shit as Natasha, she’d do exactly the same.

For a second Jane hesitates to answer, mostly because she just took a huge bite out of her green chile chicken taco. “Umm—” She takes a second to swallow. “In, like, a couple of days?” Waving her hand around, cheese spilling out of the taco as she goes, Jane reveals, “I think they want me there as soon as possible so to make sure they collect the right kind of data to do the appropriate analyses.” Pouting at the amount of cheese she’s lost, Jane shrugs and shoves the rest of the taco in her mouth, already reaching for another one.

Nodding, Natasha turns to Darcy. “We’ll have to talk about your exercise routine while you’re in Belgium, golubushka. You don’t get a pass on self-defense just because you’re out of the country.”

“Oh, she’s not—”

“I’m not going.” Darcy looks up from where she’s been meticulously scooping guacamole onto a tortilla chip. Natasha quirks an eyebrow at her, clearly remembering their conversation from the other day. Trying not to show her discomfort and hurt at being left behind, Darcy continues, “I told Jane after London that I had no desire to go back to Europe anytime soon. Plus there is stuff to do here with all that data we collected, and no one but Janie and me knows what to do with it.” Darcy thinks that her forced nonchalance might work on Jane, but there’s no way Natasha would ever fall for it.

She underestimates Jane, though. There’s a solid thunk as she puts her drink down. Staring Darcy right in the eye, Jane declares, “The only reason you are not going, besides the fact that you told me you didn’t want to, is because I don’t trust anyone but you with that data.” Never breaking eye contact with Darcy, Jane explains to Natasha, “The research we conducted a month and a half ago is career-changing, for the both of us. But it all hinges on that data. And there is no one in the world I trust more than Darcy to keep it all safe.”

Darcy tries to hide how much those words mean to her; she’s a confident woman, but sometimes she feels really out of place as a political science graduate in an astrophysics lab. As Jane likes to remind her, though, at this point she’s been working with Jane longer than the four years she was in college. Before she can sputter any grateful nonsense and thoroughly embarrass herself, however, Natasha interjects, “Well, I think you put your faith in the right person.”

Suddenly serious, Natasha diverts the subject. “What security are you taking with you? If this research is that important, there will be many people willing to do anything to get their hands on it.” Jane makes a small sound of protest, but Natasha rolls right over her. “This is non-negotiable. AIM in particular has been causing a lot of trouble lately, and we’ve had to disrupt their plans several times in the last month.”

Jane acquiesces rather easily (for her, anyway). With a small huff, she concedes, “Alright, I’ll talk to Tony about it tomorrow.”

After that, there’s no more talk about science or security risks. The next morning, Darcy and Jane wake up with killer tequila hangovers. If Natasha suffers, too, she’ll never let anyone know.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Janie, your bags are all packed and are ready at the door. I’ve put all the possible research data you might need on this drive—” Darcy wiggles the small, unassuming object in her palm for emphasis. “—and it can only be unlocked using your biometrics.”

Jane and Darcy aren’t used to so much security and paranoia around their research—unless you count that time SHIELD sent its jackbooted thugs to steal it all away—but Natasha insisted on extra safety measures for Jane’s trip to Belgium. They might have protested, except Tony (careless, reckless Iron Man) had firmly agreed in a rare moment of utter seriousness. He even took his sunglasses off and everything.

“Thanks, Darce.” Taking the drive, Jane places it on a chain around her neck. Tony specially designed the drive himself so that it could be disguised as a piece of jewelry; only he, Jane, Darcy, and Natasha know its actual purpose.

Looking up from where she’s scrawling some last-minute notes for Darcy, Jane pauses. Uncharacteristically hesitant, she asks, “Do you think they know something we don’t? These extra precautions are intense.”

“I mean, Nat usually knows a million things that we don’t.” More seriously, Darcy continues, “I do believe they see trouble coming a lot faster than we can, so if the Avengers say we need to be careful I think we should listen to them.”

Jane grunts in agreement, already turning back to her notes. Slightly nervous, Darcy double checks, “You have your panic button on you though, right?”

“Of course.”

At this point, Darcy has mentally checked off all the boxes on her list of things to do before Jane’s departure and all that’s left is saying goodbye.

Pulling Jane into a long hug, Darcy reflects that this is the first time they’ve been really separated since London and the dark elves. And the last time Jane got stuck somewhere without Darcy, she came back possessed by an infinity stone capable of plunging the entire universe into darkness. Firmly cutting off that train of thought before she has a panic attack, Darcy acknowledges to herself that they can both be forgiven for being a little nervous and shaky.

Rationally, Darcy knows that Jane will soon be home safe and sound, glowing with the excitement of new scientific discovery. Tonight, though, she feels like she might need a drink…or a run.

Natasha will be so proud that exercise has made its way into Darcy’s coping mechanisms.

 

* * *

 

The scent of freshly-made pasta hits Darcy as soon as she steps out of the elevator. The smell is incredibly alluring, and she heads toward the common room kitchen without a further thought.

As she steps into the room, Darcy can’t help but whip out her phone and take a picture of the scene.

Steve is currently wiping down the counters, but he was clearly a part of the cooking process—there’s a large smear of flour across his cheek and all over his apron, which reads _Hot Stuff Coming Through_. Darcy snorts at that, drawing the attention of her two favorite super soldiers. James, rocking a very attractive man bun, halfway turns from where he appears to be making homemade tortellini. He grins at her, looking as happy and relaxed as she’s ever seen him.

Steve’s grin is just as wide and welcoming. “Hey, Darce!” Gesturing at her clearly-soaked workout clothing, he invites her to join them. “I hope you’ve worked up an appetite. Buck and I have been cooking up a storm, and we’ve made so much pasta I don’t think even we can eat it all by ourselves.” At first Darcy thinks he must be joking; Steve and James’ appetites are notorious throughout the tower. Taking a second look at James’ workstation, though, Darcy concedes that Steve might be right—that’s an insane amount of pasta.

“I’d love to join you, if you don’t mind company. I had no idea how hungry I was until I walked out of the elevator; it smells so good in here.” With a slight grimace, she clarified, “Well, I’ll join you as long as I can shower first. Natasha kicked my ass today and I’m not smelling so fresh myself right now.”

At that, James turns back around to look at her with mild concern. “I thought you usually worked out with Natalia in the morning. Is everythin’ alright, Darce?”

“Yeah, I got a two-for-one deal today. We did our usual morning workout, but then Janie left for Belgium a couple of hours ago. So Nat offered to beat me up as a distraction.” Darcy shrugs one shoulder, trying to will away the sense of loss that’s been sitting in her gut all day.

Steve pauses in his cleaning, examining her. Dropping the dish towel he’d been using to dry the counters, he takes a few steps toward her and holds out his arms. “You look like you could use a hug, Darce,” he coaxes, crooking his fingers in invitation.

Not allowing herself to second guess it, Darcy walks straight into his embrace. Wrapping her arms around his back, she reflects that she is really lucky to have such amazing friends. Between Janie and Natasha, and now Steve and James, she’s almost always surrounded by people who genuinely care about her. In this moment, she feels incredibly lucky.

Speaking of James, there’s a gentle tug on her hand where it’s resting against Steve’s back. Releasing him, Darcy peeks around Steve’s broad frame to find James holding her hand lightly in his metal one. Steve steps away from the two of them with a light pat on her shoulder, picking up the dish rag again. Out of the corner of her eye, Darcy sees him start to wipe down a counter—except she’s pretty sure that he had already finished that one. Before she can ponder over Steve’s odd behavior, James steps closer to her. Darcy’s eyes snap to his, and he tugs again.

“Come here, Darce. This’s also a two-for-one kinda deal.”

With a choked laugh, she surrenders to his pull and lets him wrap her in his arms. For a long moment he holds his body stiffly against her; she wonders how often he hugs people, if at all. But just as she’s about to pull back, not wanting to subject him to discomfort for her own sake, James relaxes.

With a small huff against her hair—more of a light exhale, really—his arms tighten around her and she sinks into him. He is warm and large, and she idly wonders where these hugs have been all her life. His scent fills her nostrils, something woodsy and crisp, mixing with the freshness of the pasta. Darcy breathes deeply, wanting it to linger.

She could honestly stand there forever, Darcy thinks, especially because his hand has started lightly stroking her hair. His other hand is rubbing cool, comforting circles in the middle of her back. As he does so, James also rocks them slightly side to side; with each motion, she can feel her anxiety seeping away, leaving warm security and comfort in its place.

It’s altogether perfect, except— “Oh good lord, I smell terrible. I’m so sorry, guys.”

At that, Steve and James let out identical snorts. Like the sassmaster he is, James snarks, “You do realize we were in the army, right? And during the 40s, too. Things were a little less hygienic then.” The moment broken, James ends the hug and withdraws his arms reluctantly. As he steps away from her and back to the stove, Darcy feels the overwhelming need to escape the kitchen and collect herself.

“Well y’all may be used to it but I still feel disgusting. I’m gonna hit the shower. Don’t eat all the pasta without me!”

Feeling vulnerable and raw and thoroughly out of her depth, Darcy flees to her apartment. She pauses as the door closes behind her, leaning against it and trying to shake off the utter sense of home she felt in James’ embrace. With two deep breaths and a short pep talk, Darcy strides toward the bathroom. She tries to ignore the way her skin still tingles from where James was touching her.

Some hot water will get it out of her system. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milaya - dear  
> golubushka - my darling/little dove


	4. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which meals are made, puppies are cuddled, and someone is a surprisingly good cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! The chapter count should be holding steady now. :) I've got it all plotted out how I want it.
> 
> If anyone needs it, trigger warning for mentions of cyberstalking.
> 
> As always, all errors are my own. If you catch any, please let me know so I can fix them!

As soon as Bucky hears the click of Darcy’s apartment door, he turns to Steve.  
  
With a hesitance that pre-war Bucky never would have shown, he asks, “Do you think I scared her?” Frowning in consternation, Bucky’s brow furrows as he tries to figure it out.  
  
 Maybe his prosthetic arm frightened her; he tries to recall whether he’s ever touched her with it. He realizes that, in the months they’ve known each other, neither of them has ever initiated direct physical contact. Now that he thinks on it, this is the first time Bucky has purposely touched someone since his freedom from Hydra.  
  
If Sam were here, he would no doubt tell Bucky that this change means something important, but Bucky just puts it in the back of his mind to mull over later.  
  
Interrupting his worries, Steve drops the cloth he has been using to clean the spotless counter. “Nah, Buck, I don’t think she was scared of you. Not in the way you mean, anyway.” With a wink, he gibes, “Who would’ve thought I’d ever be the one tellin’ you what’s goin’ on with a dame?”  
  
Bucky’s scattered thoughts stutter to a halt. He knows what Steve is implying, but he’s not sure he’s ready to think about what it could mean. It’s obvious that Darcy enjoys his company, just as he enjoys hers. And he finds himself seeking her out more and more, enjoying her sass, her smiles, her smell—  
  
No. Now is not the time for these thoughts. Yet—  
  
Turning back to the stove, Bucky starts putting the finishing touches on the tortellini. Despite his best efforts, though, he can’t help but wonder at the implication of Steve’s words. Based on Steve’s smirk as Bucky turned, that’s exactly what the punk intended. Steve has been dropping comments about Darcy for weeks, asking Bucky what he thinks of her, talking about her friendship with Natalia, and observing how smart and dedicated she is to Dr. Foster. Stevie probably thinks he’s being sneaky, but he has all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.  
  
Not that Steve’s opinion of Darcy doesn’t matter; it does. Steve’s his best friend, ‘til the end of the line, and Darcy has quickly become important to them both. In some ways, Bucky thinks she’s been just as good for Steve as she has been for him. She cares for them, Bucky and Steve—doesn’t look at them and see only the Winter Soldier or Captain America. In a world fascinated by superheroes and villains, she cares about the men underneath. And as much as Bucky needs her to treat him like a human being (not a monster, and never an asset), Steve needs her to help anchor him to this century.  
  
In other words, Bucky would have to be dead not to see what an amazing woman Darcy is.  
  
He, on the other hand, often feels like a man out of time, a shadow of what he once was, broken and bruised.  
  
But she knows him as he is now, likes him as he is now. She never knew the Bucky of before. And if she knows all this, knows his past, has seen him and accepts him, and _doesn’t care_?  
  
Then, maybe—  
  
Bucky is saved from that unsettling train of thought by the sound of Darcy making her way back down the hall. Steve can hear her, too; with a wink, he tells Bucky, “I’m gonna go grab a bottle of wine and some beer from the apartment. I’ll be back in a minute.”  
  
Before he can call Steve out on his transparent matchmaking, Darcy sweeps back into the kitchen. Turning slightly from where he’s just finished ladling the pasta into bowls, Bucky opens his mouth to greet her. Unprepared, he’s taken aback for a fraction of a second; she’s a sight for sore eyes. Hair wet and curling down her back from her shower, she looks much happier and more relaxed. His fingers spasm slightly and press down on the counter as he’s hit with the smell of her shampoo, fresh and slightly fruity. It wafts through the kitchen gently, teasing his nose. Checking to make sure he didn’t chip the marble countertop—he’s still paranoid about the damage his prosthetic arm can do, even unintentionally—Bucky tilts his head in greeting.  
  
“Feelin’ better, Darce?”  
  
“Much better, thanks! It’s amazing how a shower can make you feel like a whole new person.” Darcy gives him an exaggerated and extremely sloppy salute. “I’m reporting for duty, Sergeant Barnes. How can I help?”  
  
He snorts, acknowledging to himself that it’s a good thing Darcy never joined the military. She’d burn the whole damn thing down in one day; just thinking of it makes him want to laugh. Suppressing a chuckle, mouth curling up at the edges, Bucky answers, “Do you mind grabbing some forks and napkins? We’re not too formal, if that’s alright with you.”  
  
“That’s perfectly fine. That pasta smells so good, you could order me to give a circus performance and I’d go find a tightrope to walk on.” She moves to one of the drawers, pulling out three napkins and forks. It feels incredibly domestic to Bucky, and he wonders if this is why Sam was so supportive about him picking up cooking as a hobby. There’s something incredibly soothing and relaxing about the routine of preparing dinner with Steve and Darcy.  
  
It feels like home.  
  
“Let’s leave the circus antics to Clint, shall we? Your company is enough for Bucky and me.” Steve jokes as he re-enters the room, carrying a six pack and a bottle of wine. “I hope beer and wine are okay, Darcy. I wasn’t sure—do you keep kosher? Because I don’t think this wine would be appropriate.” He shakes the bottle to emphasize.  
  
“Thank you for checking, but I don’t, actually. Wine sounds great. Jane and I usually drink something involving tequila, like margaritas or Mexican martinis. There’s something about it that reminds us of the New Mexico desert, I guess.” Her gaze loses focus for a moment as she gets nostalgic. “That dry heat that feels cleansing, and sunshine so strong it warms you to your very bones.”  
  
Shaking herself a little, she moves toward the island that doubles as an eating area in the center of the kitchen. Setting the table for three, she finishes, “Anyway, there’s nothing quite like red wine with pasta. Good choice.”  
  
Steve commiserates. “I completely understand. Because of the serum Bucky and I can’t really get drunk anymore. I still drink beer, though, for the same reason. It reminds me of Brooklyn. Our Brooklyn.” Apparently deciding that’s enough melancholy for one evening, Steve playfully shoves Bucky with his shoulder as he brushes past him on his way to the table. Bucky follows with the three bowls of pasta, setting them down before returning to the stove to snag the pepper grinder and a wine opener for Darcy.  
  
When he turns back, Darcy is sitting in a seat that puts her back to the doorway. For a second he wonders whether it’s an accident that she left him the seat facing the door, but he’s almost positive she did it on purpose. She is close friends with Natalia, after all. Either way, he appreciates it. Perching on a stool opposite her, he snags a beer bottle from the carton Steve brought.  
  
As he holds the bottle, condensation dampening his fingertips, Bucky’s hit with the sensation of a hot, muggy day. The smell of freshly cut grass lingers in his nostrils, and he swears he can hear the faint crack of a baseball. For a second his best friend’s face is replaced with the old Stevie—half the size but with that same stubborn determination. He blinks, and it’s gone. Unlike Steve, whose recollection of life before the ice is crystal clear and probably amplified through grief, Bucky’s memories never fully returned. Honestly, he doesn’t expect they ever will, and he’s resigned himself to fleeting senses of familiarity instead of full recollections.  
  
Shaking his head slightly to clear the lingering sense of loss he always experiences after a flashback, Bucky picks up his fork and starts to dig into his pasta. Just as he takes his first bite, there’s a chime across the room from where Darcy left her phone on the counter.  
  
She bounds up off her stool and rushes to her phone, apologizing all the way. “Sorry, it’s so rude to use the phone during dinner, I know.” As she reaches for it, Darcy looks up briefly at them and gives a sheepish grin. “It’s just that I told Jane to text me if she needed anything, and I’m a little antsy about it.” Waving her hand at them, she implores, “Please don’t wait for me. I’ll be right there, I promise.”  
  
“It’s no problem, Darce.” Bucky puts his fork back next to his bowl; some habits are too ingrained to shake and there’s no way he’ll start eating before a woman’s ready. A quick glance at Steve shows that he’s done the same.  
  
Steve chimes in. “We completely understand.”  
  
There’s no acknowledgment from Darcy, no sound at all. Examining her face, Bucky is surprised to find that her expression is completely blank. While that isn’t so uncommon for other residents in the tower, it’s incredibly rare for Darcy. She wears her emotions all over her face; it’s one of his favorite things about her. He rises halfway off the stool in concern.  
  
“Darcy? Is everything okay?”  
  
Tearing her eyes away from her phone, Darcy bluffs, “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.” As if trying to prove her point, she slowly places her phone face down on the counter and backs away. She doesn’t make eye contact with either Steve or Bucky until she’s seated at the table again and has taken a bite of pasta. With a forced smile, Darcy compliments Bucky on his cooking. “This is really, really good, Bucky.” She forestalls any more questions by opening the bottle of wine and pouring herself a glass—taking too large of a gulp, he’d guess, based on her sudden cough.  
  
At this point even Steve has caught on that something isn’t right. “Darcy, was it Jane? Is everything alright?” Bucky is still halfway standing, trying to read her body language.  
  
Darcy’s head shoots up at the mention of Jane. “Oh, no. Sorry to worry you. It wasn’t Jane who texted me.” Despite her words, Darcy still hasn’t relaxed. Bucky wavers, caught between a desire to respect her privacy and worry over whatever has her so on edge. Before he can decide whether or not he should push the issue, it’s resolved for him.  
  
The phone chimes again, and Darcy visibly flinches.  
  
Within the span of a second, he and Steve put their forks down sharply. In sync, they glance toward the phone and then back at Darcy.  
  
“Wanna talk about what has you so uncomfortable, Darce?” Who would’ve thought that Steve would be the tactful one when talking to a lady—Bucky’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth, weighed down with concern.  
  
Taking in both of their expressions, Darcy heaves a sigh and puts her fork down. “Yeah, okay. But first I want to make something clear: this is an issue that affects me and only me, and I want you to promise that you will support me in how I choose to handle it. Understood?”  
  
After a long hesitation, Bucky and Steve nod. They may be protective, but they’re not stupid. If they try to force anything, they’ll lose her friendship. Neither will she turn to them for help if she needs it, which is the opposite of what they want. Bucky settles back into his seat, attention completely focused on Darcy.  
  
“So, remember when Jane and I were in London and there was the whole convergence and space elves and creepy, possessive infinity stone thing going on?” Glancing at their faces, she moves on. “Yeah, you’re right, how could anyone forget a story like that? Anyway, while we were there I had an intern named Ian.”  
  
Picking up her fork and stabbing a piece of tortellini, she moves on. “Ian was smart and actually trained in astrophysics, so he was a major help during the whole thing.” Waving the piece of pasta around in the air, she admits, “There was a lot of adrenaline while we were racing around trying to save the universe, and when it became clear that we weren’t going to die I got a little overcome and kissed him.” At this, she takes an aggressive bite of the pasta.  
  
Bucky and Steve follow suit, resuming their meals. After a few moments, Steve murmurs, “That’s perfectly understandable, Darcy. There’s nothing wrong with getting caught up in the heat of the moment.” As he speaks, Steve eyes Bucky, as if trying to gauge his reaction. Bucky is tense, but not because they’re discussing Darcy’s romantic history. His mind, ever vigilant in threat assessment, is already jumping ahead to how this story could be related to Darcy’s skittish reaction to the phone. He doesn’t like the conclusions he’s reaching.  
  
“I know. So we had a very short fling, which was fine. We were both adults, and it was completely consensual. No problem, you’d think. Except that when it came time for me to break things off, he…well, he wasn’t entirely okay with it? Which led to some really uncomfortable conversations and situations. Let’s just say I was not at all disappointed when Tony hired Jane and we moved back to the States.”  
  
“Darcy.” Bucky catches her gaze and holds it. “Did this…did Ian ever hurt you? Physically?”  
  
Her answer is immediate. “No. No, he never touched me.” Pursing her lips, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat for a moment and asks, “Has anyone explained cyber stalking to either of you?”  
  
Not really, no. They shake their heads, and she explains, “It’s basically stalking and repeated harassment via the internet, so like through email, texting, calling, and social media.” Continuing, she reveals, “That’s basically what he’s been doing to me. It was a lot worse before we left London. I thought maybe he would completely quit when we moved to New York—‘out of sight, out of mind’ and all that. He hasn’t really quit, though. I still get harassing text messages and phone calls pretty regularly.”  
  
Already knowing the answer, because there’s no way in hell Dr. Foster would put her best friend’s safety at risk for her own gain, Bucky asks anyway. “Does Dr. Foster know?”  
  
“No, I haven’t told Jane yet.” At their incredulous expressions, she rushes to explain. “Yet! I’m going to, of course. It’s just that Ian has information and observations from the convergence that Jane actually really needs from time to time. And, unsurprisingly, he uses it as leverage because he knows that it’s the only reason he can still coerce me into communicating with him.”  
  
She grimaces. “I’ve been compiling all the information he’s giving us and using that whenever I can. Eventually, we will have exhausted him as a scientific resource and I’ll be able to tell Jane. I can’t yet, though, because she would put her foot down and throw all of her hard work away. I won’t put her in a position where she has to do that.” As she finishes her declaration, she gives both of them a significant glare. It’s unnecessary; Steve and Bucky remember their promise.  
  
Steve huffs. “It’s not right, that you have to choose between groundbreaking research and your own safety.”  
  
At that, Darcy snorts. “That shouldn’t be funny, but you just perfectly described the professional dilemma of so many women, Steve.”  
  
“Still, is there anythin’ we can do?” Bucky doesn’t want to push, but he can’t stand the thought of Darcy facing this alone. Based on his antsy fidgeting, neither can Steve.  
  
“No, I’m pretty much in a bind until we stop needing his part of the research.” She smiles reassuringly. “It’s just texts and calls, so I feel pretty secure in New York. He never stalked me in person and I sincerely doubt he has the funds for an international flight. It’s just unsettling, that’s all.”  
  
Her words make him feel slightly better, but not by much; Bucky knows how quickly things can spiral out of control. Plus, he’s not sure if Darcy believes her own words; she looks understandably shaken. He implores, “If his behavior changes at all, or he says anything that scares you, will you promise to let us know?” Trying to show that he’s not attempting to take control, he clarifies, “Steve and I are trained in threat assessment and strategy—please let us help you if you need it.”  
  
As he finishes, Darcy’s defensive posture eases a little. She takes another sip of her wine, and simply states, “I can do that.”  
  
The matter settled for now, they eat in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, but no one seems to know how to regain the lighthearted atmosphere of before. For several long minutes, the only sound in the room is the clink of silverware.  
  
Just as Darcy opens her mouth, presumably to redirect conversation to a better path, Steve’s phone rings loudly. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, Steve answers. “Rogers.”  
  
In what Sam has started calling an ‘old man’ moment, Bucky feels a surge of irrational frustration with modern technology—cell phones in particular. Apparently it was too much to ask for a relaxing, stress-free meal with his two closest friends. Some of his irritation must show on his face, because Darcy shoots him a wary glance. Bucky vaguely recognizes that she might think he’s irritated with her, but he’s too distracted by Steve’s side of the conversation to correct her.  
  
“AIM? Yeah, understood. Yes, I’ll be there. One hour? Understood. See you then.” He hangs up, already reaching for the last of his meal.  
  
With a sheepish look at Bucky, Steve shoves the last of his food into his mouth and stands up. Gulping it down, he explains, “Sorry, duty calls. AIM is causing trouble again and we have to fly out first thing in the morning. Briefing is in less than an hour, so I have to head out.”  
  
Darcy’s fork clatters to the table, drawing their attention. “Did you say AIM? Where are you going? Where are they causing trouble? Jane—”  
  
Rushing to set her mind at ease, Steve interrupts, “No, it’s not Jane. She’s going to Belgium, right?” She exhales shakily and nods. “We’re going to Chile, so nowhere near her. That’s all I’m allowed to say, but you don’t have to worry.” Self-consciously, Darcy hums in acknowledgment and rolls her eyes at herself, clearly embarrassed at her outburst. She doesn’t need to be; both men understand the driving need to make sure a friend is safe.  
  
Steve fidgets, clearly in a hurry to get going. He looks between his now-empty bowl and Bucky a couple of times and then glances at the clock, grimacing. “I’m sorry, Buck. You made such a good meal and I can’t even stay to help clean up.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it, punk, I got it. Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”  
  
“No, I’m not sure. Based on the way we’ve been chasing them around for the last month or so, it could take a while. Maybe a week or more?”  
  
He moves around the table, clapping Bucky on the back and squeezing Darcy’s shoulder. “Thanks for joining us for dinner, Darce. Maybe we can do it again when I get back?”  
  
“You got it, Captain. Now go kick some ass in the name of good scientists everywhere.” She stands up, shooing him on his way as she starts to gather the dishes.  
  
A half salute and a wink, and Steve’s gone.  
  
Bucky and Darcy clean the kitchen in tandem, moving around each other easily in a comfortable dance. Other than an initial protest that Darcy needn’t help with cleanup, which just makes her roll her eyes at him, Bucky doesn’t complain about the company. The two of them are like a well-oiled machine: Bucky stacks the dishes for Darcy, she cleans them, and then she passes them back to where he stands ready with a drying cloth. Silence reigns in the kitchen for a long time, both of them enjoying the relaxing rhythm of the task.  
  
Eventually he breaks the silence, wondering aloud, “Will it be strange for you, workin’ in the lab without Dr. Foster there?” Grinning at her, he teases, “The two of you seem almost joined at the hip.”  
  
She flicks a bit of soapy water in his direction, scoffing, “Like you’re one to talk. You and Steve have been _the_ dynamic duo for like a hundred years.” Handing him the last dish, she concedes, “But yeah, you’re right. The lab will seem really empty and quiet without Jane. I’ll probably get my work done in half the time since I won’t have to worry about getting her to eat or sleep or, you know, live.” Darcy laughs, shutting off the water at the sink. Turning to him, she snags the towel out of his fingers. She dries her hands and then reaches up and tucks an errant curl behind her ear. For a moment, Bucky is lost in the movement; he has the urge to mimic her movement and stroke her hair.  
  
Before he can do anything embarrassing like reach toward her, she questions, “What about you? Is it hard for you when Steve is gone?”  
  
Darcy turns to start putting the dishes away, so he busies himself with cleaning the counters. “Yeah, it can be. It’s too quiet, like you said. I prefer not to sit around in my own head all damn day.” A thought strikes him. He hesitates, but he wants to spend more time with her, so he forces himself to push through. He can’t bring himself to look at her as he does it, though. Studying the counter, he offers, “If your schedule is more flexible with Dr. Foster gone, d’ya wanna have lunch next week?” Feeling bashful, he justifies his invitation. “Sam suggested pickin’ up a hobby as part of my recovery, and I really enjoy cooking. Without Steve here to eat everything I’ll have too much food.”  
  
Her smile is blinding, and he is completely certain that she can see right through his flimsy excuse. “Well, we certainly can’t have any food go to waste, can we?” She leans forward into his line of sight, catching his eye. “That sounds like a great idea, James. Does Monday work?” At his nod, she finishes, “Good. I hate Mondays, so it’ll be nice having something to look forward to.”  
  
He can’t help the grin that tugs on his lips. It’s foolish, but his heart rate is slightly elevated with her answer. It’s just lunch, with Darcy. As a friend. Right? His throat clogs, and he can’t bring himself to reply.  
  
As usual, Darcy isn’t fazed by his lack of response. She closes the last cupboard with an emphatic click and turns to him. “Well, that looks like everything. Thank you again for dinner—it was delicious. I’ll be swimming through tortellini in my dreams. And what sweet dreams they’ll be.” Grinning at him, she heads for the door. “See you Monday!”  
  
He nods, but she’s already gone.  
  
Bucky grabs a beer from the forgotten six-pack.  
  
He’s got some things to think about.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Barnes. How's it going?"  
  
Bucky tilts his head in greeting. "Wilson. Did Steve ask you to check on me while he's gone?"  
  
"Yeah, but I would have done it anyway. So, how's it going?"  
  
"Alright, I guess. Better."  
  
Sam just looks at him, waiting him out. Part of Bucky rebels, scoffing at the idea that Sam thinks he can outlast the world's deadliest assassin in a waiting game. He fights his pride, knowing it will be better for everyone if he talks to Sam. Plus, he could use his advice. Despite his affection for the man, Bucky always feels like he's reporting to a superior officer during these conversations, and he has to force his muscles to relax.  "I'm still getting frequent nightmares, but they aren’t as horrific, generally speaking. Flashbacks are happening less often."  
  
"And the cooking? Are you still doing that?"  
  
"Yeah, I enjoy it. It helps me ease up, especially when I'm havin' a rough one." He pauses, then adds, "I cooked for Steve and Darcy the other night." Sam's no fool; he knows that Bucky cooks for himself and Steve regularly. In just one statement, Bucky has revealed Darcy’s importance to him.  
  
"And? How'd it go?" Sam's eyebrow waggle is ridiculous, and Bucky knows it's about to get worse.  
  
"It was good. Probably should’ve made more pasta, but it was fine."  
  
Sam quirks an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.  
  
Bucky sighs. "It was fine. Cooking and eating with friends is relaxing, and it’s nice to feel like I can do somethin’ good for someone..." He trails off.  
  
"And?" Sam prompts, sensing that he has more to say.  
  
Better to rip off the bandage. "I asked Darcy if I could cook for her again," Bucky blurts.  
  
Sam's eyebrows shoot to his hairline, but the rest of his expression stays blank. "Really. That's unexpected."  
  
Not the most encouraging response. Worried, Bucky tugs at his hair and questions, “D’ya think I shouldn’t? I know I’m still dangerous—always will be—and I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her—”  
  
Reading Bucky’s mindset, Sam interjects before he can spiral any further. “No, that’s not what I meant. I literally just didn’t expect it. I don’t think there’s necessarily any problem with you and Darcy pursuing something together. Just—” He hunts for the right words, recognizing that Bucky’s still on edge.  
  
“Just what? Spit it out, Wilson.”  
  
“Just make sure you’re going at the pace you need. If you need space, that’s okay. If you need to take a step back, do it. And if Darcy has a hard time understanding that, then maybe it shouldn’t go any further. But she seems to read your emotions and needs pretty well, just as she has from the day you met. My advice? Take it slow. No need to rush into anything. Just feel it out, see where it leads, if anywhere.”  
  
Bucky nods, uncomfortable but grateful for the advice. His mama didn’t raise no slouch, so he opens his mouth to thank Sam. But, wait—  
  
“If you don’t think it’s a bad idea, then why did you react like that?”  
  
Sam claps him on the back and starts walking swiftly away. “C’mon, Barnes. the two of you have been dancing around each other ever since you met. Romanov, Stark, and I have a bet on when you’d finally have the guts to do something about it.” Blatantly moving to escape, not even trying to be stealthy now, he tosses over his shoulder, “Nat wins, of course. I don’t know why I even bet against that woman.”  
  
Bucky’s dumbfounded for one whole second. Betting on his love life? _His_?  
  
“Just wait ‘til Steve hears about this one, Wilson. You’re done for!”  
  
The coward is already gone.

 

* * *

 

By the time Darcy arrives in the common room for lunch on Monday, Bucky is putting the finishing touches on lunch. It was a rough weekend for him, full of nightmares of nameless faces he hurt or killed while under Hydra’s control. They were most likely brought on by his conversation with Sam about Darcy and he almost canceled lunch several times, torn between his desire to spend time with her and his fear of causing her harm. Eventually, though, he decided to take Sam’s advice and take it one day at a time. Starting with lunch. Today.  
  
When he first gets to the kitchen, Bucky contacts Darcy via Friday to set a time to meet. He hasn’t used the number she gave him, even though it’s been several days—he just hasn’t felt ready. To be honest, he’s unsure about this whole thing. He doesn’t even know whether Darcy will like the meal, damn it.  
  
After deliberating for an embarrassing length of time, he finally decided to make mamaliga and sarmale, two Romanian dishes he fell in love with while he was on the run. He’s never made them himself, which is a good thing. After so many nightmares he needs the complexity of a new recipe to help him unwind and release the last of his nightmare-induced stress. It works; the smell of the food evokes comforting memories of a full belly and kind strangers. His stay in Romania marked the first time in seventy years that he was actually able to control what and how much he ate, and Bucky suspects he will always have a soft spot for the cuisine. The Winter Soldier avoided any attachment to food; at best it offered an opportunity for target elimination, and at worst it was a weakness that could be exploited. Now, Bucky revels in it; to him, it signifies freedom and choice.  
  
When Darcy shows up, she slides right in to help. She does it so smoothly it’s as if she was there from the start. After they exchange greetings, she busies herself with collecting all the dirty dishes and dumping them in the sink. Then, she moves to set the table. As she does so, Bucky retrieves the sarmale from the oven, now nice and warm. He’d finished baking them the night before (a small benefit of insomnia—preparing meals in advance), which left only the mamaliga for today. Darcy sidles up to him as he’s serving their food, peering at it with unabashed curiosity. “That looks delicious, James! What is it?”  
  
He tells her. Surprising himself, he doesn’t stop there. As they take their plates to the table, he tells that sarmale are traditionally holiday foods, but he had a craving so he made them anyway. From there, it’s as if floodgates have opened. Unprompted, he finds himself telling her about what it was like living there. Not about life as a fugitive, but about the people and the culture. She listens as he describes things that he hasn’t told anyone but Steve (and some that he hasn’t told anyone at all). Her eyes light up as he tells her about the old women in the market, and she laughs aloud when he reenacts the outrageous arguments they would get into while haggling.  
  
The time passes quickly, and by the time he tells her about the stray dog he befriended in Bucharest, they’ve both finished their meals. Embarrassed and feeling like he has monopolized the conversation, he stops mid-sentence and leans back, hands flat on the table. She stops him from running by tapping a knuckle on his prosthetic hand, just once. Meeting his eyes, she challenges, “No, I want to hear more about this dog. What was his name?”  
  
She’s going to make fun of him, he knows. He mumbles, “I called it câine.”  
  
There’s a pause and then she snorts, choking on a mouthful of water. “Does that mean what I think it means? You literally called your dog, ‘dog’?” She chortles uncontrollably. “Oh James, where’s your imagination?”  
  
He takes the ribbing easily, snarking, “Well I had a couple other things on my mind, doll.”  
  
Darcy’s smile softens. “I like it when you call me that.” Before he can do something embarrassing like blush, she changes the subject. “Have you thought about getting a dog now that you’re settled in one place?”  
  
With a wistful smile, he answers. “I wish I could, Darce. But it don’t make much sense to get an animal to care for when I have no idea what I’m doin’ with myself, y’know?” Glancing at the clock, he realizes he’s kept her away from the lab for over two hours. It’s a good thing Dr. Foster is away, or she’d have his hide for absconding with her colleague.  
  
Following his eyes, Darcy also looks at the clock. “Holy moly, where did the time go? Let me help you clean these up and then I’ve got to be on my way back down to the lab.”  
Knowing how important the research is to her, Bucky protests. “Darce, you don’t have to stay. I can clean up.”  
  
She scoffs at him in indignation. “Now see here, Barnes, there’s no way I’m leaving this mess to you! The person who cooks is not supposed to clean—it’s a rule.”  
  
Raising his hands in mock surrender, Bucky laughs. “Alright, alright. You can help me, but there’s no way you’re doin’ it by yourself.” Rolling her eyes and nodding, she gathers the dishes from the table and takes them to the sink.  
  
When they go their separate ways a few minutes later, they have dinner plans for later in the week.  
  
On his way back to the apartment Bucky walks lightly, less weighed down by the remnants of his nightmares.  
  
In fact, this is the most unfettered he’s felt in months.

 

* * *

 

The following Friday morning, Bucky has just gotten back from an early workout when he gets a strange text from Sam. He’s on his way to the shower, stripping off his soaking shirt, when there’s a chime from his phone.  
  
_Hey, come to floor 63 when you have a minute._  
  
Bucky pauses to type out a reply. _Is everything alright?_  
  
_Everything is fine. Just get your ass down here._  
  
It’s not like Sam to be so cryptic, but Bucky is too gross to go anywhere without showering first. He texts Sam to let him know he’ll be there afterward, then puts the phone down and heads to the bathroom.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, he steps out of the elevator onto the 63rd floor. It’s one he hasn’t been to before, but it has a similar floor plan to most other levels of the tower. He’s not sure why Sam would ask him to meet here, and he starts to suspect a trap. Before he can make a strategic exit, an incongruous sound drifts down the hallway. It sounds like…a whine? And…Yeah, that was definitely a yip.  
  
Cautiously, he follows the noises down the hallway, to what appears to be a conference room. Nudging open the door, he finds—  
  
Sam. Sam, frolicking in a pile of puppies.  
  
What?  
  
Catching sight of Bucky’s face, Sam lets out a raucous laugh and stands up, puppies tumbling everywhere. In between guffaws, he chokes out, “Man, you should see your face right now!” A tear leaks out of the corner of Sam’s eye, and he flicks it away. “I wish I had thought to take a picture when you opened the door. That was priceless, Barnes.”  
  
Unsure what the hell is going on, Bucky cocks his head at the other man. “Wilson, what the hell is this?”  
  
Sam chuckles, “You told our favorite lab manager that you love dogs, I guess. Your girl thought that even if you aren’t in a place to get your own dog, you should at least get to enjoy some cuddling. She convinced Pepper that it would be good for ‘employee morale’ to have a puppy cuddle day.”  
  
Sam glances at the clock, and adds, “Darcy pulled some strings, and you have an hour before anyone else even knows about it.” He gestures at the romping puppies in invitation. “So what’re you waiting for?”

 

* * *

 

An hour and a half later, Darcy receives her first ever text from Bucky. It’s a picture, one that makes her laugh so hard she spits coffee all over her desk.  
  
Bucky is sprawled across the ground, five or six yellow labs clamoring all over him. It looks like one of them licked him right in the face as he took the picture, and he’s grinning ear to ear. With the photo, he sent:  
  
_Sam says this is a selfie?_  
  
Almost immediately, her phone chimes with another text.  
  
_Thank you, doll._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a million hugs and Chipotle burritos to InAmberClad, for putting up with me.


	5. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, coffee, food, fighting, and more fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse fled for the hills last week, scaring me for a minute. After much wheedling and cajoling, it’s back and we’re all good now. :) 
> 
> FYI, Darcy’s training is based on my (beginner) knowledge of Krav Maga. It makes sense to me that this is what Nat would teach her.
> 
> Thanks to InAmberClad for keeping me sane.  
> All mistakes are my own, como siempre.

Over time, Darcy and Bucky settle into an easy rhythm.

Jane is still collaborating in Belgium, which allows Darcy to transition to more regular work hours. The one good thing about Jane being gone is that Darcy doesn’t have to stay up for multi-day shifts, and can settle into a consistent schedule in the lab that doesn’t require sleep deprivation.

After their first dinner and lunch, she and Bucky start eating meals and spending time together regularly. They both pretend that it happens completely by accident, but Darcy doubts they’re fooling anyone.

Even if she wanted to call him out, tease him about it a little, she can’t. Darcy’s just as guilty, after all. Despite the presence of a souped-up coffeemaker in her and Jane’s apartment, Darcy finds herself using the one in the common room every morning instead.

Without Jane there to push the whole ‘research waits for no woman’ argument—“Darcy, we don’t need to eat or sleep or stop because we have SCIENCE”—Darcy lets herself linger over her first and second (and third, and sometimes fourth) cups of coffee in the morning. Like clockwork, James always shows up halfway through her first cup, freshly showered and glowing with a post-workout high.

The first time he walked in, Darcy almost spewed her coffee across the table. Not the best way to show her appreciation, really, but the headiness of her attraction to him was unexpected—a punch to the gut that left her breathless. The jackass knew it, too. As she choked back a scalding swallow of coffee, his eyes gleamed with an unholy glee. In a classic distraction technique, she thrust a mug of coffee his way. And so the morning coffee routine was born.

Darcy’s not likely to look a gift horse in the mouth. Mornings filled with leisurely coffee consumption and post-workout James—skin flushed, hair still wet and curling, smelling delicious? Life is good. Life is _beautiful_.

It gets even better when James catches her making a prepackaged, frozen meal a couple of afternoons after their first dinner alone. She’s in the middle of unwrapping an admittedly-unappealing congealed mass (is that supposed to be _lasagna_? Gross.) when he walks into the common room kitchen. She had put off leaving the lab as long as possible, not looking forward to scrounging the kitchen for something to eat. Darcy hates cooking.

“Hey there, Darce. Whatcha cookin?” As he catches sight of her meal, James’ face immediately pulls into a disgusted grimace. “What in the—? Doll, what is that? Are you tryin’ to poison yourself?”

Poking at the meal dejectedly, Darcy heaves a sigh. “I know, it’s disgusting. But I waited too long and got so hungry. I’m desperate enough to eat it.” She reaches for the wrapper, mustering the will to unwrap the damn thing and put it in the microwave.

James’ hand reaches for the prepackaged monstrosity so quickly it’s a blur as he snatches it from her hand. “Absolutely not, Darce. There’s no way in hell that is edible.” He eyes her appraisingly. “I know you're hungry, doll. Can you wait five minutes for me to whip somethin’ up?”

Darcy half-heartedly reaches for the box. It’s a futile attempt; James is over half a foot taller than her and is fueled by righteous indignation. Cocking an eyebrow and shaking the box playfully, James just looks at her expectantly. She blurts, “I feel bad that you’re always making me food. It’s not like you owe me or anything; you don’t have to feed me to get me to stick around.”

James ducks his head a little, peering at her through his eyelashes. “It’s not like that, doll. I—I cook for you because I want to. Because it’s nice to do something good for someone.” He takes a hand through his hair and looks away. “Plus, it’s a part of my therapy. It’s…relaxing, I guess. Sam says it’s because it gives me back control, or something.” Huffing, he finishes, “Anyway, the point is that I like cooking for you. It’s not an obligation. Now, sit.”

She does, seating herself at the kitchen island, where they can keep talking as he works. Rummaging through the pantry, he asks, “So, what do you prefer? I can make a sandwich—boring but quick. Or I could whip somethin’ up with some leftovers.”

His enthusiasm for the task at hand is adorable, and Darcy decides then and there that she’s willing to do almost anything to see him so carefree. With a shrug and a wink, she offers, “Why don’t you just go ahead and surprise me?”

James chuckles and nods. As he bustles around the kitchen, poking his head into the refrigerator, she watches with amusement. He moves this way and that, pulling things out of the refrigerator and snagging a bowl from the cabinet. From where she’s situated, she gets a perfect view as he bends slightly at the waist to turn on the oven. Hot damn, the view is phenomenal. She’s struck by the thought of him in an apron, in the kitchen, and… _nope, stop it right there. That’s totally inappropriate, Darcy_. They’re not just friends anymore, she doesn’t think. Not exactly. But they still aren’t anywhere close to where she feels comfortable fantasizing about him, especially when he’s standing right in front of her.

And now she’s blushing a fierce, fiery red. Damn it. She’s abruptly pulled from her inappropriate thoughts as James plops a small plate of plum slices in front of her, saying with a wink, “To tide you over.” The thoughtfulness of this man might actually kill her. She’s pretty sure she might already be in heaven.

Snagging a piece of plum, she munches quietly for a moment. After a few seconds, Darcy swallows, props her chin in her hands, and asks, “So, James. Cooking for therapy, huh? How’d you get into that?”

Cocking his head, James points a fork at her and diverts the subject. “Why do you do that?”

Darcy blinks, utterly confused at the change of subject. “Do what? What do I do?”

James elaborates with a small frown. “James, not Bucky.”

She blushes. “I don’t know—I guess it just felt weird, calling you Bucky? I know Steve does, but he’s your best friend. It felt a little overfamiliar, I guess?”

With a small grin, barely a tilt of the lips, and an intense look he teases, “Doll, I think we’re past all that now, don’t you?”

Darcy’s proud of herself for only stuttering slightly as she chokes and replies, “Yeah, of course. You’re totally right.” Taking a second to calm herself, she repeats, “So, _Bucky_. Cooking for therapy?”

He doesn't answer right away, busy placing whatever he's making for lunch in the oven to heat up. Straightening, he closes the oven door with a thunk and turns back to her.

Pulling a stool from underneath the island, James—no, Bucky—settles on it and gives her his undivided attention. “It was Sam’s idea, actually.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Wondering if he’s struggling with the ‘men can't show weakness or emotion’ attitude common to the 40’s, Darcy helps him along. Holding a slice of plum out to him in offering, she says “Oh?”

The plum gives Bucky a moment to collect his words, and he chews thoughtfully. Swallowing, he replies, “Yeah. Well, not cookin’ specifically. Not at first. First, he just suggested I get a hobby. Somethin’ for myself. Unrelated to…unrelated to Hydra.”

Darcy nods, trying not to think of how many years Bucky went without being able to do anything just for the sake of enjoyment. He doesn't want, or need, her pity.

“I didn't even think of cookin’ at first. Before the war, it's not like it was much fun. Everything was rationed, and we couldn't afford much anyway.”

It's times like these that Darcy is struck by how out of time and uncomfortable it must be for Bucky and Steve, almost a century away from the world they grew up in. Setting that thought aside, she says, “That makes sense.” Gesturing to the kitchen, she adds, “But you are clearly a pro now. How did that happen?”

He laughs. “Late night TV, actually. On nights I couldn't sleep, I always found myself watching cooking shows. They were always so relaxing, so one night I decided to try it.” With a one-shouldered shrug, Bucky finishes, “I guess it stuck.”

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Darcy grins. “Well I for one am very grateful that you discovered your inner cook!”

The oven dings, and Bucky heads over to finish lunch prep. As he works, she jokes, “That smells delicious. Any time you need a taste tester, Bucky, I'm your girl. I call dibs on your delicious recipes. Steve can fight me.”

Bucky snorts. “Now there's a matchup I'd be terrified to watch.” Before she can protest, he adds, “Stevie would be so scared of hurting you that you'd probably win.”

Darcy nods sagely. “Yes, well, Natasha is teaching me to use every advantage in a fight. He wouldn't stand a chance.”

Placing a plate of heavenly sustenance in front of her, Bucky resumes his own seat. He picks up his fork, but doesn't start eating immediately. Instead, he levels a mock glare at Darcy, demanding, “Now that I've seen the garbage you're willing to put in your body, Darcy, it won't come to a fight. From here on out, I'm feedin’ you.” Taking a savage bite, he grumbles, so lowly she can barely catch it, “And I thought you were supposed to be the smart scientist o’ the bunch.”

He's sweet, so she's willing to let that last comment slide. With a grin and a wink, she scoffs, “What, am I supposed to argue with you? Oh no, you're forcing me to eat gourmet meals that I don't have to make myself! Whatever will I do?”

He chuckles. “I'm guessin’ you don't enjoy cookin’ as much as I do, then.”

Darcy laughs in his face, glad she doesn't have a mouth full of food to spew all over him. Jabbing her fork in his direction, she says, “Do you honestly think I would feed Jane so many poptarts over the years if I was good at cooking?”

Every time Bucky laughs at something she says, Darcy feels like she should mark it down and note when, where, and why, if only so she can make it happen again and again. His whole face lights up, and Darcy swears she can hear the sound of teenage girls swooning all around the world. “Fair enough, Darce. Fair enough.”

After that, they eat meals together often. James’ eating habits, which seemed to be fairly erratic before, have conveniently synced entirely with hers. She always seems to find him in the common room kitchen, knee-deep in meal prep, right when she’s getting hungry. Not that she’s complaining.

 

* * *

 

“Janie? You there?”

The screen wobbles a bit as Jane adjusts the camera. The screen jerks, and Darcy is no longer staring at the bland wall of a hotel bedroom, but at her best friend’s face.

“Sorry, Darce. I forgot to check the camera’s positioning when I called!” As she speaks, Darcy finds herself cataloging Jane’s appearance and energy levels. She does it every time they talk; some habits are just too ingrained to break. Everything seems to be in order, which is good. Jane’s hair is a little greasy—but only like one day too long, not three or four—and her plaid shirt is off by one button, but all things considered she looks pretty healthy. Allison clearly took Darcy’s instructions to heart, and is taking good care of Jane (at least as much as anyone can during a science bender). She may not be close with the new doctor, but at least the woman takes all her responsibilities seriously.

Darcy sits up in bed, yawning. Jane tends to forget minor details like time zones, so she usually calls extremely early in the morning, waking Darcy up. “It’s no problem, boss lady. How’re you doing? Any scientific breakthroughs I should get excited about?”

Jane grimaces, and Darcy braces herself for bad news. “No, not really. But it’s still important work we’re doing here, and my theories are actually much more integral to their research than anyone thought.” She takes a deep breath, blowing a lock of hair away from her face. “I think Allison and I might have to stay here much longer than we originally thought.”

There’s a pause as each of them try to figure out what to say. Darcy, feeling like she needs to check, asks, “Everything is okay, right?”

Without using any of their nonverbal cues for ‘ _shit has hit the fan get me out now_ ,’ Jane rushes to reassure her. “Yeah, everything is fine. Really. There’s just so much work to be done. It’s all new and it has to be done right, you know?”

Darcy does know; she’s been working with Jane for 6 years now, after all. “Alright, that makes sense. Well, let me put together some stuff for a care package and have Stark get it over to you.” Before Jane can argue that Darcy doesn’t need to baby her, Darcy pulls out her trump card. “You only took enough of your emergency research chocolate for one month, anyway, and I know you must be running low. I’ll even throw in some of that delicious coffee you like that helps you brainstorm.”

Jane knows exactly what she’s doing, but she laughs and acquiesces anyway. They both know that Darcy’s mothering is as much for her as it is for Jane, so Jane doesn’t complain too much. Especially when she gets coffee and chocolate out of it.

“So how is Dr. Walters? Is she adjusting to your work style alright?” Despite the insecurity she feels around the other woman, Darcy does genuinely want her to fit in with Jane. Girls need to support girls, after all, especially in science.

“Yeah, she’s starting to really settle in and hit her stride.” Looking around, she adds, “She was just here, but I think she went to call her boyfriend since I was planning to call you.”

Jane pauses, and gives Darcy a significant look. Or at least as significant as it can be on a fairly-grainy video feed. “I think things will be different when we get back. I think that she felt really insecure when she joined the team, and couldn’t figure out what her place was. And she took that out on you.” Before Darcy can reply, Jane holds up a hand and says, “Which was really shitty of her. It’s not exactly a good personality trait. But I made it clear how valuable you are, and she’s seen the data you’ve been sending us. I don’t think she’ll be rude to you anymore. And if she is, after this long? Then we cut her loose.”

“Janie, it’s not a big deal—” She starts to say, but Jane cuts her off with a rude noise.

“Yes, Darce, it is. If she can’t play nice after this long of an adjustment then we don’t want her on our team. Got it?”

Her best friend can be so easy-going in many ways, but there are times when she gets that stubborn tilt of her chin and Darcy just knows it’s useless to argue. “Got it, Jane. It’s a moot point right now, anyway. It’s going to be weeks at least before you come home, right?”

Jane cringes. “More like at least a month.” At Darcy’s expression, she cries, “I know, it’s crazy! I wasn’t kidding when I said this research is huge.”

Regrouping, Darcy quips, “Well, I better double the chocolate I was planning to send.”

Grinning at her, Jane jokes, “You’re a lifesaver, Darce. Really.”

“I know I am. Now tell me about your research.”

 

* * *

 

With all these daily trainings (or as she likes to privately call them, beatings) with Natasha, Darcy feels like she should be a lot better at fighting than she actually is. When she says this to Nat, the former spy laughs in her face. “One, I am teaching you self-defense, Darcy. Not to be an Avenger or a vigilante. The only fighting you will be doing is enough to get you in a position where you can run to safety or call me to come get you. Yes?”

Darcy knows that, of course, but it sounds a lot less cool.

“And two, you are exactly where you should be.” Darcy preens with pride; praise from Natasha is rare but always well-deserved. Of course that’s the moment that Nat cruelly shatters her good mood, declaring, “But since you are clearly not sure, you will prove it to me. Grab your gloves.”

Knowing better than to refuse, which just puts Nat in a sadistic mood, Darcy moves to comply. Because it’s who she is, though, she can’t help but snark, “You know that’s not how compliments are supposed to go, right Nat?”

She should have known better. Nat is the one person who will never let her get away with anything.

“Apparently I don’t know, milaya. But you can be sure to tell me all about it during the next hour of reps you’re going to do.” Not for the first time, Darcy wishes she had a superpower so that she could surprise Nat with her superhuman skills and wipe that smirk off her face. Instead, she straps on her boxing gloves and trudges into position on the mats.

Bringing her hands up to her chin and shifting her feet into a fighting stance, Darcy readies herself. Natasha nods as she slides the strike pads on her hands and moves in front of Darcy. “Good positioning. Now, for combos. I’ll call them out, 1 through 4. Jab. Jab, cross. Jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook, right knee. Got it?” At Darcy’s assent, they begin.

For a long time, there’s no sound other than Darcy’s grunts of exertion, the resonating thwacks of her gloves hitting the pads, and Natasha’s occasional corrections of her form. There’s something almost meditative about the repetitiveness of the motions, and Darcy enjoys her training a lot more than she’ll ever admit. As much as she complains to Natasha, Darcy can really tell the difference that her training has made. She’s a lot stronger than she was before, and she’s starting to get that natural confidence of someone who knows how to defend herself. Plus, she can actually throw a punch without worrying about breaking her hand, and she doesn’t drop her guard nearly as often as she did before.

After a while, Nat calls a halt to the combos and tells her to get some water. Grabbing a different pad, she tells Darcy, “Nice work. Let’s give your arms a break and work on some groin kicks.” When Nat first taught her those, Darcy giggled and joked and generally didn’t take them seriously. In one of the harshest tones she’s ever used with Darcy, Natasha chastised her and declared that it was one of the most important moves for women to learn. Darcy took them seriously after that.

Now, she nods and takes one last swig of water. Peeling off her gloves and wiping her face, Darcy moves into position. At Natasha’s nod, she starts her kicks, snapping her leg forward and up at groin height.

“Knee up first, less like a soccer kick. There, good. Do it again.” Again, and again, and again.

“Don’t drop your hands. You need to always be ready to protect your face.” A pause as Darcy corrects her form, and then, “Good.” Over and over, until Darcy feels like she could destroy someone in their sleep. Which, according to Natasha, is exactly how it should be. “When you’re scared, milaya, your brain will panic and shut down. We need to make sure your muscles already know what to do.”

Eventually, Natasha calls a halt to the kicks. As Darcy grabs some water, she instructs her to put the gloves back on. “You’ve been working really hard, golubushka. I can see major improvements in your form and in your intensity. So, one last drill. I want you to throw nonstop straight punches for one minute. We’ll take a thirty second rest, and then you’ll do one more set. Ready?”

Darcy slides back into her fighting stance and nods. “Good. Go.” Knowing that Nat will double the exercise if she doesn’t work hard enough, Darcy pours everything she has into the straight punches. Rotation of the hips at every punch? Check. Hands snapping back to the face on each recoil? Check.

“Keep it up. You’re halfway there.” Breathing regulated? Check. Core engaged with every strike? Check. Sweat streaming down her face and hair clinging to her neck? Ignore it.

“Time. Nice job.” Darcy gasps for breath, simultaneously proud of herself for working so hard while also trying not to feel like she’s going to die. She puts her hands on her knees, bending over, attempting to regulate her breathing and get ready for the next round.

Before Natasha even calls time to get started, Darcy is ready and in her stance. A quirk of the brow is the only indication that Natasha is pleased with her dedication, but it’s enough.

Working herself back into a rhythm, Darcy focuses on the strike pads.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

After about 10 seconds, Natasha begins speaking to her. She does that sometimes, making sure that Darcy doesn’t lose form during a distraction. Fights don’t occur in a vacuum after all (or maybe they do, just not to Darcy).

“So. You and Barnes are a thing now, huh?”

It takes everything she has for Darcy to keep punching. “What the hell, Nat?” she puffs, trying to talk through her movements. It’s tough, and she knows that’s why Natasha waited until this moment to broach the subject. This way, Darcy can’t walk away or snark back. She’d be impressed by Nat’s cunning if it wasn’t so frustrating.

“Everyone knows, milaya.” Nat pauses, and Darcy gets four more strikes in before she continues. “Are you sure about it? He’s dangerous, and his PTSD makes him unpredictable.”

Darcy doesn’t bother to reply, waiting until she finishes the workout. Her strikes during the last 30 seconds are vicious, expressing her anger at the topic and at the way Nat manipulated her.

When Nat calls time, Darcy strips off her gloves angrily, tearing at the velcro with her teeth. She stomps over to her water bottle, dropping the gloves into her bag as she goes. As she drinks, she tries to take a couple of calming breaths. Nat has her best interests in mind, she knows. But sometimes Darcy feels more like a manipulated target and less like a close friend.

Nat slinks closer to her, face as impassive as usual. “I’m just worried about you, Darcy. He _is_ dangerous, and less stable than I think you realize.”

“You’re dangerous, too, Nat.” Before Natasha can list all the ways that it’s different, Darcy soldiers on. “And I know Bucky has PTSD. We talk about it frequently and openly, damn it. I’m not pretending it isn’t there, but I’ve seen him after bad weekends and on bad days. He withdraws into himself, Nat. He doesn't violent.”

Natasha opens her mouth to respond, but Darcy doesn’t allow her to get a word in edgewise. She rants, “No, you blindsided me with this during the worst part of my training so you could say your piece. Now it’s my turn.” Dumping everything into her gym bag and pulling the strap over her shoulder, she glares at her friend and declares, “I trust him to know his limits. And if he thinks he’s ready to explore whatever it is we have, then I’m going to trust him. That’s it. That’s all there is to say.”

Without another look at her, Darcy storms out of the gym.

She’s shaking when she gets to her room, exhausted from exercise and her fight with Natasha. Darcy _hates_ fighting with her friends. As she unpacks her gym bag, her phone lights up with a text message.

_I’m only concerned about you, milaya._

Darcy sighs. Now that she’s out of the conversation, she realizes that she may have overreacted just a little bit. Nat was heavy handed, for sure, but she has legitimate concerns.

Damn it.

“Friday, could you please place an order for raspberry vatrushka from that place Natasha likes? For delivery ASAP, please." She has her own apology to make.

 

* * *

 

Sam says that Bucky has the inclination to deprive himself of things he enjoys, as a kind of penance for the decades he spent committing terrible deeds. Privately, Bucky thinks Sam is probably right. There’s a well of guilt that tends to bubble and boil over whenever things are going well for him. . He really doesn’t want to ruin the best thing to happen to him since World War II, so he tries to avoid it by not examining his relationship with Darcy too deeply.

Still, as he enters the common room kitchen on a Saturday morning, he can’t help but reflect on all the ways his life has changed to revolve around her. For one, Bucky’s once-haphazard cooking and eating habits have gained structure and regularity.

When he first arrived at the tower from Wakanda, Bucky struggled with the inhumane eating regimen characteristic of his time under Hydra’s thumb. Often, his only inclination to eat was when his body lost efficiency, and even then his focus was on sustenance rather than enjoyment. That changed some when Sam introduced the idea of cooking as a hobby, but he didn't fully engage in a normal eating cycle until Darcy entered his life.

It’s more than just food though. At this point, his entire daily routine has readjusted to accommodate the time he spends with her. Bucky still works out in the gym every day, but he makes sure to stop and shower by 8:00 AM, which conveniently puts him in the common room in time to have coffee with Darcy before she heads to the labs. On weekends, Bucky follows the same routine, delayed by exactly one hour for no reason at all other than the fact that Darcy drinks her coffee a little later on Saturdays and Sundays. Lunches are the same; it’s an unspoken rule that she takes her lunch break at roughly the same time every day, and he always has food prepared for them to share.

Dinners, too, they often eat together. Steve joins when he isn't out Avenging, usually accompanied by Sam. Those are good nights for Bucky, surrounded by his favorite people. Despite all this, though, and despite the fact that he and Darcy have all but admitted that they aren't just friends any more (if they ever were just anything), Bucky still can't talk about it. Not with Steve, and not with Sam, both of whom just give him those sad, commiserating looks.

Bucky is terrified that if he says it out loud, makes it real, then the universe will find another way to fuck him over and take her away. Worse, he's scared that he will be the reason it all goes wrong. He's petrified that he might hurt her. So he says nothing at all, just quietly rearranges his life around her.

Bucky’s fears rear their ugly heads that morning when he walks into the kitchen and finds it unsettlingly empty, no Darcy in sight. For a moment Bucky wonders whether he has misjudged the time, which is a ridiculous thought. He glances at the clock anyway—8:59 AM. Darcy should be here. She’s always here.

Except today, apparently.

Before his anxiety can truly build (Is she hurt? Did he do something to ruin it?), Stark’s AI addresses him over the kitchen speakers.

“Sergeant Barnes, I apologize for disturbing you, but I have a message from Miss Lewis.”

“Go ahead, Friday.”

There’s a pause, and then a recording of Darcy’s voice plays over the speaker. “Hey, Bucky. I’m sorry to bail on our unofficial coffee date this morning. My phone went crazy with alerts from the lab a few hours ago and I had to rush down here first thing. I didn’t even get the chance to grab a cup of coffee on my way.” She groans, the sound somewhat distorted through the speaker. “Anyway, I’m really sorry, but I still haven’t figured out what’s going on with the data so it looks like I’ll be here a while. I guess we can play it by ear? I’ll see you later,” she trails off, sounding dejected.

Well, there’s nothing for it.

He’s going to have to go to the labs.

It takes another hour after Bucky decides to visit Darcy before he can convince himself to move. Even after months of therapy with Sam and multiple visits to Stark’s lab for checkups on his arm, Bucky still has serious anxiety about that floor. There's a special kind of terror surrounding lab coats and sterile labs for Bucky, and it's so ingrained he’s not sure he'll ever be able to shake it.

But then he thinks about Darcy. Bucky pictures her sunny smiles, her bright clothing, her cheerful laugh, and how none of that fits with his experiences with science and painful experiments. That picture of her makes him determined to go see her, and to get past it (and he’s aware that this should be simple, would be simple for anyone else). But really, Bucky just can't imagine spending his day without seeing her, when there's no reason he should have to.

Little by little, Bucky convinces himself to move. First, he unsticks his lungs, coaxing them to take deep, even breaths. Then, he walks himself through the mundane process of making coffee, letting muscle memory guide him as he compartmentalizes his actions. Grabbing two travel mugs from the cabinet, he doctors Darcy’s coffee just the way she likes it (three cream, two sugar) and makes one for himself. He snags a banana on his way out of the kitchen, knowing that Darcy probably didn't stop to feed herself in her mad rush to the lab.

It's fifty paces from the kitchen to the elevator, and he focuses on taking each step one at a time. Not thinking about where the elevator leads, Bucky focuses on the floor, putting one foot in front of the other. Step by step, until he arrives at the elevator.

Friday, ever the accommodating AI, opens the elevator door as he approaches. Not allowing himself to hesitate, Bucky takes a deep breath and steps inside.

When it comes to pushing the button for Darcy’s floor, Bucky stops. He breathes in and out—once, twice, three times. He's never gone to the labs on his own, after all. As he reaches for the panel, his hand shakes. Then it's done, and he's on his way.

It’s like the hard part is done. Now that he's in motion, a weight is lifted off his chest. He’ll be arriving at the labs no matter what, now, and Darcy is there.

Darcy is there.

The elevator eases to a stop, a soft ding heralding his arrival on the lab floor. From here, there's not much to do but make his way toward her.

Bucky ignores the cold white walls as best he can, instead picturing Darcy’s brightly patterned sweaters and Steve’s obnoxiously patriotic uniform. The thought of Steve in that outfit never ceases to be entertaining, and he chuckles to himself at the thought of it. The punk would get talked into being target practice.

Before he knows it, he's there.

As he knocks on the door to Jane and Darcy’s lab, the banana and one coffee in his left hand, the other balanced in the crook of his elbow, Bucky realizes that he never doubted his decision to come down.

When Darcy looks up at him, eyes widening in wonder and lips stretching into a breathtaking smile, he knows why.

How could he say no to this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What goes up...


	6. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing bad ever happens on a Sunday. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in, y’all.
> 
> (Unbeta'd.)

She could live to be two hundred years old, and Darcy’s still not sure she’ll ever be the recipient of such a sweet gesture again.

It starts off as the Saturday morning from hell—her phone wakes her up early in the morning, blaring incessantly with an alert from the labs. She barely even takes the time to properly dress herself, and skips both coffee and food altogether in her rush to the labs. Darcy intends to send Bucky a message right away, letting him know she isn't intentionally standing him up on their coffee date, but gets distracted by the literally-flaming disaster that meets her in the lab. All of her attention after that focuses on making sure she doesn't lose any of Jane’s precious data.

It’s only when she yawns for the tenth time and remembers her depressing lack of caffeine intake that morning that she recalls where she’s supposed to be. With arms elbow-deep in a malfunctioning machine Darcy can't call Bucky or send him a text, so she sends him a message via Friday instead.

And that’s that, or so she thinks.

Of all the things she’s expecting this morning, looking up at a knock to find two of her favorite things—coffee and Bucky— waiting outside the lab would never have made the list. It's the best surprise she's had in a really long time and she doesn't hesitate to let him in, tripping over her own feet to get to the door as quickly as possible.

His anxiety is apparent from the moment he walks in, so she isn't surprised that his visit to the lab is brief. Bucky, mostly nonverbal for the duration of their little date, stays long enough for them both to finish their coffee. He even presents her with a banana, mumbling, “I didn't think you stopped to grab breakfast.” Darcy’s touched by his thoughtfulness, but says nothing. He's so on edge already and she doesn't want to make it worse. Instead, she just smiles and says thank you.

They sip their coffee in silence, and she doesn't protest when he says he should let her get back to work, because he clearly needs the escape. She wishes he could stay, though. She wishes she could ask him to.

Darcy makes sure not to touch him when they part, giving him a wide smile instead, infusing it with her happiness and pleasure that he came to see her. He's subdued as he leaves, and she worries about him a little.

Soon enough, though, she becomes reabsorbed into her work, and the next time she surfaces its dinner time. She heads up to the common room, wondering if Bucky will be in a better place now that he's had time to decompress.

Darcy walks into the kitchen, and…Bucky isn't there.

She pulls out her phone to text him, but hesitates in an uncharacteristic moment of insecurity. Changing her mind at the last minute, she texts Steve instead. She keeps it vague, just asking if he's seen Bucky and if so, how he's doing.

Not two minutes later her phone vibrates with an incoming call. It's Steve.

“Hey, Steve.”

Steve’s voice, as strong as always, sounds a little harried. “Hey, Darce. I'm really sorry I didn't think to call you about Bucky. I know you usually have dinner together.”

Still unsure about, well, everything pretty much, Darcy hedges, “I mean it's not like they're set plans or anything—”

He cuts her off, firmly. “Darce, he may not talk to me about the relationship the two of you have, but I've known Bucky his entire life. I see how much he cares about you, and…well, he's going to be upset with himself when he realizes he missed his usual dinner with you.”

Well, that doesn't sound good. “Steve, is he okay?”

A sigh. “He will be, Darce. Buck doesn't do so well on the lab floor, you know? He had a rough time of it when he came back from visiting you today.”

Shit. “Steve, I promise I didn't ask him to come. I would never have—”

“Darcy, I know. It's okay,” he reassures her. “I wasn't blaming you, just explaining what happened.” Hearing his words, she feels a little less guilty. “Anyway, he wore himself out after this morning and fell asleep a couple of hours ago.”

She's really glad she didn't text Bucky and disturb his much-needed rest. She sighs, relieved, and says, “Thanks, Steve. I could tell he was anxious this morning and just wanted to make sure he's okay.”

“I understand, it's not a problem.” Steve hesitates, then adds, “and Darcy? It usually takes him a couple of days to recover after times like these. So don't be too discouraged if he disappears for a while, okay? I promise I've got his back.”

Darcy understands. She thanks Steve one more time, and they hang up.

The next morning, Darcy sticks to the usual routine, just in case. She tries not to be disappointed when Bucky doesn't show.

The morning, after that, Darcy does it again. As she apprehensively approaches the common room kitchen, Darcy wonders if their whole little dance has been abandoned. She needn't have worried, though; Bucky is there, waiting for her with a tired grin and a pot of coffee just starting to brew.

Looking at his worn-down expression, Darcy is struck by an idea. At dinner that evening, she presents Bucky with some ptichye moloko she ordered from the place Natasha likes. His face lights up with sheer delight, and there's none left the next day. It's totally worth the fees she pays for a rush delivery.

Everything goes back to normal, and she forgets all about it.

* * *

 Darcy’s running late for dinner with Bucky and Steve. She'd been on a call with Jane again, trying to suss out exactly when she can expect her boss to come back, and then just generally catching up, and as often happens with the two of them they completely lost track of time.

Luckily for her, Darcy lives only a few feet away from their usual meeting spot. Even with how close she's become to Steve and Bucky, she's never been inside their apartment nor them in hers. Whether that's a remnant of 1940’s social conventions or a desire for privacy, Darcy doesn't know. Not that it matters; the common room has kind of become their territory anyway.

As she races down the hall, attempting to get there quickly without seeming like she’s in a hurry (though with their super hearing she's not sure why she even bothers), she can smell the meal Bucky is preparing tonight. He's been experimenting with different types of cuisine lately, and tonight is Indian. And damn, does it smell delicious.

As she turns the corner, slightly breathless, she greets the men in the kitchen. “Hey Buck, hey Steve!” Looking around, she asks, “No Sam tonight?”

Steve gets up and walks around the island table to give her a hug. Bucky, hands full and intently stirring something on the stove, doesn't move to hug her. Instead he gives her a private, sweet smile, which is honestly almost better.

Pretending he didn't notice the silent interaction between them, Steve answers Darcy’s question. “No, no Sam tonight.” Pulling an exaggeratedly forlorn expression, he laments, “He's in DC for a couple of days, doing something at the VA.” Carelessly, he adds, “Besides, he's still in trouble for the shit he pulled with Bucky.”

Darcy hasn't heard about any trouble between Bucky and Sam. She thought they were friends, or at least that the two most important men in Steve’s life were making a concerted effort to get along. “What? What did he do?”

If looks could kill, Steve would be dead twelve times over. Before he can even open his mouth to respond, Bucky interjects, “Don't, Steve. You stop right there or I'm never makin’ you dinner again, punk.” Grinning mischievously and eyes dancing, Steve mimes zipping his lips closed

Turning to her, Bucky says, “It ain't nothin’, Darce.” At her disbelieving expression, he amends, “It's embarrassin’, and not important, ‘s what I meant. Can we forget about it, please?”

She's a sucker for those eyes, and she’s pretty sure Bucky knows it. Still, she doesn't need to push. “Sure, Bucky.” Darcy moves to take a seat next to Steve, both of them facing Bucky as he works. “Want to tell me what you're making for dinner?”

He does, telling her about the dish he's making and the slight trouble he had baking the naan. Bucky is so animated like this, with his eyes clear and bright with passion; he looks as if he's lost years of suffering, and she could listen to him for hours.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, distracting her momentarily. She knows it's not Jane—her best friend was tired when they hung up and was going straight to sleep. She ignores it.

With a clang of the pot on the stove, Bucky signals that dinner is ready. In tandem, she and Steve get up to set the table and serve the meal. They've done this enough times now that they work in unison, the three of them perfectly in sync. Darcy loves it.

When everything is ready, they sit down to dig in. As she reaches to take her first bite, Darcy’s phone buzzes in her pocket again, the vibration reverberating through her body. She takes a second to blow air on the hot food in an attempt to hide her frown. With two texts so close together, she knows who is sending her messages. She knows what they say, too; every text has said the same exact thing for the past couple of weeks.

_Don't ignore me, Darcy. You can't ignore me forever._

She damn well can. Unwilling to ruin another evening with drama, Darcy chances a look at Bucky and Steve to make sure they haven't noticed her sudden tension. They haven't, instead focusing on the deliciousness of the new recipe.

Following their lead, Darcy pushes away all thoughts of Ian and digs into her own meal. “Holy shit, Bucky. This is so good.” Silence reigns for a while as they all stuff their faces, though Darcy admittedly eats a lot less than the super soldiers.

Eventually, Steve wipes his mouth with a napkin and asks how Jane is doing in Belgium. “She's good! They're wrapping up the collaborative portion of the research now, so she should be be back in the next few weeks. Which is good, because her birthday is coming up.” Both super soldiers pause their meals at that, likely not well-informed on birthdays in the tower.

Tentatively, Steve addresses a potential cultural divide, something Darcy hadn’t even thought could be an issue. “I’ve seen enough modern movies since waking up to get the impression that these days people care a lot about celebrating their birthdays with large parties and expensive gifts. Is that true?”

Chewing thoughtfully, Darcy says, “Well, it really depends. Some people make a huge deal out of it, for sure; those are probably the types you’re talking about. Some families don’t celebrate birthdays much or at all, for whatever reason. But overall I do think it’s really common to mark the day with some kind of celebration—dinner or party or whatever—and a lot of times there are gifts involved.” Pausing, she finishes, “I don’t know, it’s kind of hard to explain. Did you not do the same in the 40’s?”

Steve hesitates, not finding the right words. Bucky jumps in, taking over. “It’s like I told ya, doll. We didn't have much money then, so big parties and fancy gifts weren't exactly up our alley, y’know?” Darcy nods' sometimes she forgets the real impact of words like inflation and depression, but Bucky and Steve aren't usually shy about pointing out how expensive everything is these days. The old geezers; she loves them.

Bringing them back to the topic on hand, Steve prompts, “So which kind of birthday person is Dr. Foster?”

“Steve, how many times do I have to tell you to call her Jane?” Darcy huffs, laughing at his insistence on formality. “And she's one of the people who's somewhere in between. I think she didn’t celebrate until I started interning with her, but we do now. Jane’s not really into anything fancy or expensive, but Tony will throw a party for her anyway. The two of you will be invited, of course, and I expect you to show up.” She gives them a stink eye at that last bit, letting them know without words that she’s not actually giving them a choice.

After they give her exaggeratedly-solemn nods, in tandem as always, she relents and continues, “But I do always make sure to get her a gift. Not necessarily something expensive, but always something meaningful that she'll appreciate.”

Curious, Steve asks, “Like what?”

“Well, one year, when they were still dating, I got Thor to bring back some dirt from Asgard.” At their confused faces, Darcy chuckles. “Yeah, he was confused too. It's a thing some people do to commemorate places they've been. And to be blunt, it's really fucking impressive that Jane’s actually been there. As far as we know, Jane was the first human to visit Asgard in centuries, if not longer.”

Waving her hands in the air, Darcy continues nonchalantly, “But since she was possessed by a universe-threatening infinity stone, she didn’t really get to do the whole tourist thing. So I got Thor to bring some Asgardian dirt. She loved it. It's still in a jar in her room, actually.”

Whistling in admiration, Bucky declares, “Damn. You're a good friend, Darce.”

Steve nods in agreement. “So what are you gonna do for her this year?”

She sighs. “That's what I've been trying to figure out. When we lived in New Mexico, Jane used to go out every night and sit on the roof and stare at the stars. It's like it centered her.” Choking up a little, Darcy says, “She doesn't regret moving here, but she can't do that anymore. And I think she's a little lost.”

Embarrassed, Darcy coughs to clear her throat. Voice rising, she rushes to get to the point. “Anyway, this year I was thinking of trying to give her a little bit of that back. So I was thinking about getting one of those wallpapers to put on the ceiling of her bedroom that shows an image of the galaxy.” She stops, looking first at Bucky, then Steve, to gauge their reactions to her idea.

They like it, apparently. “Doll, that’s a great idea. Jane’ll love it.” Steve stays silent, but Darcy can practically see the little artist’s wheels spinning in his brain, turning her idea over and over in his mind, finding ways to make it better. Watching him gives her an idea of her own.

“Yeah, so that was my original idea. The problem with that is you can only pick from certain images and some of them aren't even astronomically accurate, which would drive Jane absolutely crazy. So…” she trails off, waiting for Steve’s brain to come back from whatever creative paradise it wandered off to. Bucky just smirks at her, knowing exactly where this is going. Resting his chin on a propped-up hand, he glances back and forth between Steve and Darcy as if watching a tennis match.

Steve blinks and snaps back to himself. “Well that could be a problem. You don’t wanna give an astrophysicist an incorrect depiction of the stars and make her stare at it every night, do ya?”

Darcy laughs. Hook, line… “Yeah, exactly. I did some research and there's an amazing type of paint that looks invisible during the day and glows at night. So I could paint any paint any image of the galaxy I want, and would be able to make sure that it's actually accurate.” …and sinker. It might be impossible for Steve’s eyes to get any bigger; he still gets blown away by all the new inventions that are available and accessible in the 21st century.

“The problem is that I'm not artistic. Like, at all. The best I could do would be to outline and make sure the stars and nebulae are in their proper locations. If only I knew a couple’a fellas who were really creative and willing to do a gal a favor.” She looks at the two of them pointedly.

Steve laughs, knowing he's caught. “Alright, Darce, you got me. I've gotta make sure it gets done right, anyhow.” He winks at her. “Plus I still owe you for saving me from Natasha's wrath, remember?”

“Yes. Yes, you do.”

She turns her pleading look on Bucky next, making her eyes large and round. He chuckles, holding his hands up in surrender. “You can put the lethal weapons away, doll. I'll help you out—no need to guilt me into it.” Putting his hands down and picking up his fork to continue eating, Bucky mutters, “Though why you want my help in the first place is a damn mystery. I ain’t the artist around here.”

Darcy and Steve share an amused glance at his words. Sometimes Bucky really does act like a grumpy old man, and they tease him ceaselessly about it. It's become something of a game between the three of them.

Now that she's acquired some help, Jane's birthday gift seems a lot less daunting to Darcy. With that load off her shoulders, Darcy dives into the rest of her meal happily.

Three days later, she's reminded why artists have a reputation of being hard to work with. Steve has immersed himself in all aspects of the process, from organizing with Tony to have all of Jane’s furniture temporarily moved or covered to hand-selecting the glow paint he's willing to work with. Darcy’s pretty sure she doesn't actually want to know how many hours he’s spent researching the chemical properties of the paints and the science behind their glow-in-the-dark magic. If someone ever got a hold of Captain America’s google search history, they’d be in for a surprise.

On one hand, Steve is incredibly adorable like this, all earnest over-achievement and an extreme dedication to perfection. On the other hand, he's driving Darcy a little crazy and she's getting overwhelmed. Today is not a good one; there have been more malfunctions in the lab and she's spent the whole day troubleshooting, running on too much caffeine and too little sleep. Which means, of course, that she is utterly unprepared for Steve’s excited diatribe on the merits of using this color over that for nebulae versus stars.

By the time Steve asks for her opinion, Darcy’s head is spinning. Like a guardian angel, Bucky swoops to her rescue and declares a moratorium on gift discussion for at least the rest of the day. Darcy appreciates his intervention, but feels guilty as soon as she sees Steve's poorly-hidden disappointment.

In an attempt to smooth things over, and because she is actually very grateful for her super soldiers’ help and support, Darcy asks Steve if he'd like to meet up the next day to help her finalize the image she wants to paint on Jane’s ceiling. She knows Bucky will come along, too, if only to reel Steve back in when he gets too excited. And, an ever-increasing part of her hopes, he'll come along because he wants to see her, chaotic circumstances notwithstanding.

And that's how they end up at the island table again, sharing yet another meal. (Darcy is starting to see a recurring theme in her time spent with Steve and Bucky, and it all seems to center on food. With their enhanced appetites, though, Darcy guesses that she shouldn't be too surprised.)

They spend some time debating choices for the specific image that will feature in the mural, which turns out to be a tough decision for Darcy. Even though it's her choice, she really appreciates the insight that Steve and Bucky provide, and isn't hesitant to bounce ideas off of them.

Darcy ultimately decides on the more classic choice of a mural based on a particular image of the Milky Way that was dear to Jane’s heart. For months that picture inspired and motivated Jane when her theories were widely seen as delusional pseudoscience, and it became a symbol of hope and perseverance for the whole lab. Jane was devastated when the picture and its frame were destroyed by SHIELD thugs during their ‘confiscation’ of her research. For whatever reason, they never got around to putting a new one up in London. After much hunting, Darcy was able to find an exact replica of the photo when they moved to New York, and has been trying to figure out what to do with it ever since.

(Darcy had briefly considered making Jane’s ceiling an homage to their first witness of an Einstein-Rosen bridge in action, thereby immortalizing the moment in which all of Jane's theories were finally validated. That plan would require painting the images of Thor’s initial crash landing in the New Mexico desert, however. And even though the idea was nice in theory, Darcy discarded that idea fairly quickly. As explanation, she pointed out, “I mean, Thor’s a great guy and all, and I love him to death. And it was obviously an important moment in Jane's life. But who wants a constant reminder of the first time they met their ex-boyfriend painted on the ceiling, you know what I mean?”

And really, when she puts it like that, it's not exactly a difficult decision for her to make.)

* * *

Luckily for everyone, the actual painting process goes a lot smoother than the planning stage had—Steve is so into the whole project that Darcy doesn't really have to do much except supervise the accuracy of the mural. She cedes control gracefully (or tries to, anyway), and lets Steve do his thing with the paints and general artistic preparations.

She and Bucky set themselves to the task of mapping out major star locations on the ceiling, sketching a skeleton of their little section of the cosmos so that Steve has a framework to keep him on track as he paints. After the prep work is done Darcy and Bucky are basically useless, but it's not like Darcy is going to leave Steve by himself to finish the project—it's her gift to Jane after all.

At the end of it all, Darcy reflects that maybe Steve would have preferred to work in solitude , after everything Darcy and Bucky put him through. With nothing to do except keep Steve company, Darcy and Bucky quickly engage in a competition to see who can get the biggest rise out of him as he works. It generally consists of Darcy making horrible puns about Steve’s Captain America persona (especially the costume, because that's just low-hanging fruit right there) and Bucky telling horrendously embarrassing stories from their childhood.

Steve bears it all with long-suffering stoicism, though he chuckles a little when Darcy attempts to reenact his “I'm just a kid from Brooklyn” line in a truly atrocious accent. Bucky goes even further, and tells Darcy all about the infamous trip to Coney Island that made Steve throw up. Still, Steve doesn't even twitch.

After hours of bearing their trolling with complete grace, Steve finally snaps when, just as he's finishing the mural, Bucky proclaims, “Steve, no! You’re doin’ it wrong—that star’s in the wrong place.” For a moment Steve panics, moving off the ladder to try and spot his error. To be perfectly fair, Bucky is so convincing that Darcy starts frantically searching for the mistake too. He can't keep up the ruse for long, though, letting them get worked up just long enough to think the whole project has utterly failed somehow before he starts laughing.

Cackling at their expressions, he bends at the waist, breathing hard. With tears in his eyes, he swipes a hand over his face and chortles, “Oh, if the two of ya could see your faces right now. I swear—” he's abruptly cut off as a streak of paint smacks him right across the nose, streaking across his cheek. With the lights on Darcy can't really tell what color it is, but she is absolutely certain where it came from.

Incredulous, she turns in Steve’s direction. As she rotates, she too is hit with a splatter of paint (though not nearly as much as Bucky). When she meets Steve's eyes, shocked that he would attack her unprovoked, he just grins, unrepentant. “Sorry, Darce. The casualties of war, and all that.”

Naturally, it devolves from there, and Bucky and Steve engage in an all-out war with the paint.

Darcy is really glad she insisted on covering every inch of Jane’s room in drop cloth, because there'd be no repairing the damage otherwise. Feeling like she should stay and referee, if only so not a single drop mars the beautiful mural they created, Darcy is repeatedly caught in the cross-fire. After the tenth time Darcy gets struck by wayward paint, she gives up and joins in. Eventually, the paint ammunition runs low, and the super soldiers seem to realize that they’re going to have to wash it all off somehow. As the paint stops flying, Darcy takes a second to assess the damage. Despite having the worst reflexes and atrocious aim, she is the least messy. Taking the facts into account, it’s clear that the two men took it easy on her. As she looks at the utter mess they've made of themselves, Darcy decides it isn't expedient to complain about any special treatment.

Darcy is struck by an idea, and before they can scamper off to rid themselves of paint, she directs Bucky and Steve to lie down on the floor and look up at the mural. They do as they’re told, leaving space in between them for her.

Moving from the corner she’d backed herself into during the paint war, Darcy makes her way between them and lies down. She takes a deep breath and crosses her fingers, hoping all their work is about to pay off. Asking, “Ready for this?” she starts counting down. “3, 2, 1. Friday, please shut off the lights.” As always, the AI immediately obeys and the room sinks into darkness for a split second, and she instinctively closes her eyes.

Then, color bursts across her eyelids, startling them open. She blindly reaches to her left, searching for Steve’s hand. He finds hers, gripping tight, and neither looks away from the masterpiece above them. It’s stunning—streaks of blues, greens, and purples racing across the ceiling—and she feels as if she’s actually staring up at a piece of the Milky Way. Jane’s personal piece of the galaxy—and that thought chokes her up. Darcy can’t wait for her to see it.

“Steve…” she starts, and then trails off. There are no words for how she feels right now. Steve squeezes her hand, letting her know that he understands.

Glancing to her right, Darcy finds that Bucky is just as transfixed. His body is absolutely still as he stares up at the ceiling, but the ethereal glow from the painting reveals the expression of awe and wonder that’s scrawled across his face. Without her permission, Darcy’s right hand creeps across the space between them, reaching for a connection. For a moment, she thinks he’ll ignore it (and she’s _fine_ with that, she tells herself). Not knowing how to retreat without calling more attention to herself, she leaves her arm lying there stretched across the space between them.

She allows herself to get lost in Steve’s artwork again, momentarily transported back to a roof in a dusty town in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico. All that’s missing is her best friend, and her heart aches fiercely for Jane, startling her with a sudden sharp pang of loneliness in her chest. Shaking off the melancholy of those thoughts, Darcy focuses again on the wonder of the ceiling.

Immersed as she is in her trip across time and space, Darcy flinches slightly when she’s pulled back into herself by a feathery brush of Bucky’s prosthetic fingers against hers. Misinterpreting her reaction, his hand withdraws back toward his body. Quick as lightning, she reaches out and halts his retreat with a slight grip on his fingers, holding on lightly.

After a moment in which neither of them seems to know how to proceed, Bucky’s hand shifts, bringing it fully underneath hers. Their fingers are not interlaced—her hand just rests on top of his—but it's enough contact to create a connection, and something settles warmly in Darcy's chest, easing the ache of missing Jane. The three of them lie there in silence for a long time, united.

After a long time spent just staring at their masterpiece, Darcy realizes that the ceiling isn't the only thing glowing. She lets out a bark of laughter, drawing the curious gazes of her companions. Gesturing at the three of them, glowing almost as bright as the ceiling from their paint war, she laughs, “Look at us! We look like we’ve spent the night at a rave gone wrong.” Bucky and Steve laugh with her, and the spell is broken.

Slowly, the three of them start to peel themselves off the floor. As they move, the drying paint causes their clothes to stick to the tarp-covered floor. It’s messy and childish, and an all-around good time. At some point in the process, Steve directs Friday to turn the lights back on. In silent agreement, Darcy, Bucky, and Steve head for the door, completely satisfied with a job well done and willing to leave the clean up for later.

Darcy’s the last one to the door, and she turns back to take one last look toward the ceiling of Jane’s room. All traces of the magnificent ceiling are hidden in the bright light of the room, and Darcy closes the door. She can't wait for Jane to come home and see it.

* * *

Nearly two weeks later, Darcy wakes up earlier than usual, full of a restless energy. Jane is due to come back from Belgium soon, and Darcy is missing her friend desperately.

Though it flies in the face of her instincts to do anything so early on a Sunday morning, Darcy needs to burn off the energy by doing something productive. Calculating the time, she collects her workout clothing and moves to the bathroom to get dressed. If she moves quickly enough, she can get to the gym, train with Natasha, and still make it in time to meet Bucky in the common room kitchen for their daily coffee date.

In the middle of brushing her teeth, Darcy recollects a vague memory of getting a text from Natasha sometime during the night. She heads back to her bedroom and picks up her phone from the nightstand. Still brushing, she thumbs through her texts to check whether it was just a dream. She slides past the large number of messages from Ian (seriously, you'd think the guy could take a hint by now), and finds one from Natasha at 3:00 this morning.

Milaya, there's a situation in Jersey. Could be 3 hours, could be a day. I still expect you to train.

Darcy walks back to the bathroom to spit and rinse her mouth. After she dries off with a towel, she asks, “Hey Friday, do you know if Natasha is back yet?”

“Agent Romanov has not yet returned, Miss Lewis.” Acknowledging the AI, Darcy contemplates her options. After some internal debate, she shrugs and pulls on her socks and shoes. She has to work out, anyway (Natasha always knows when she skips, and the consequences are terrible); it might as well be now.

As she trudges toward the elevator, Darcy runs through all the exercises she can do on her own. Natasha is off on missions often enough that Darcy has a fitness plan for days when she’s gone, but it’s always a lot more boring. Sparring is out, of course, though maybe she can set up some rotations on the punching bag to spice things up.

Still running through a mental catalog of possible exercises, Darcy is halfway into the gym before she realizes she’s not alone. Bucky’s already at the bag, moving at a speed Darcy will never be able to match. He pours everything he has into the movements, and Darcy takes a moment to admire his…form. _Yeah, Darcy, like anyone’s buying that._

She sets her water bottle down along a stretch of wall within his line of sight, not sure if he’s spotted her yet. He pauses halfway through a punch as she turns back around to face him and steps away from the bag. Bucky nods a greeting, reaching up to swipe away a piece of hair that dislodged itself from his hair tie. “Hey, Darce. You’re not usually here so early. Everythin’ alright?”

She beams at him, still running on overdrive with restless energy. “Hey, Buck! Yeah, I woke up early this morning. I was hoping to train with Nat this morning, but she got called out on a mission last night.” Bucky nods, likely already knowing about the mission; he shares an apartment with Captain America, after all.

He hesitates, then jabs a thumb toward the doorway. “Do you want me to leave so you can—”

She cuts him off, reassuring, “No, no of course not. I don’t have a problem if you don’t.”

Shaking his head, Bucky steps back to the bag. He’s all business again, clearly ready to resume his workout. Shrugging, Darcy puts her headphones in and does some basic stretches to warm up her muscles. That achieved, she steps onto the treadmill, setting the pace for a light warm-up jog. She alternates between watching Bucky’s grace and trying to mind her damn business. Knowing he’s too observant to not notice her staring, Darcy forces herself to keep an eye on the treadmill rather than Bucky’s muscles. It’s tough, but she manages.

After about 15 minutes, Darcy feels a prickle at the back of her neck and realizes she’s not the only one who’s having a hard time keeping their eyes to themselves. Glancing up at the mirror, she catches Bucky looking at her and throws him a wink. He gives her a slightly bashful grin and steps away from the punching bag. It looks like he might be wrapping up his workout, and Darcy impulsively decides to ask if he’ll help her with some partner exercises.

“Hey Bucky, do you think you could help me with something?” As she speaks Darcy stops the treadmill and hops off, turning to face him.

He pauses where he was using a towel to wipe down and arches a brow. “Sure, Darce. What do you need?”

Moving toward him, she pulls a pout and says, “Well, Natasha usually trains with me using the strike pads so I can practice my moves on an actual target, you know? And since she isn’t here, I was wondering if you might be willing to do it instead?”

Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to another, fidgeting. “Darce, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve done partner work with Steve, but—” he swallows, unsure, “—well, Steve can defend himself against me if something happened.”

She laughs, holding out her arms and gesturing at herself. “I mean, I’m not exactly much of a threat. Please? Partner workouts are so much better for my training.”

There’s a long minute where he still hesitates, and she finally caves. “I’m sorry for asking, Bucky—”

Darcy turns away, knowing disappointment is written all over her face but unable to do anything about it. He stops her, sighing, “Alright, Darce.”

“Bucky—”

“I said alright. But we’re only going to practice punches, got it? No knees or elbows—nothing close contact. Yeah?”

Staring at him for a second, she agrees. “Yeah, alright.”

As he goes to grab some strike pads, Darcy straps on her gloves. She’s grateful that he’s helping her out, and knows that he’ll be just as effective as Nat in pointing out errors in her form.

Things go really well at first. They walk through a number of straight punches and hooks, establishing a rhythm and getting used to working with each other. Eventually, Bucky starts calling out combinations and is more vocal about his feedback as he relaxes. He corrects her a number of times on her recoil, and she also begins to relax.

Darcy isn’t aware the exact moment when things change. She’s not sure when his encouragement stops, or when his eyes go blank. Gradually, though, she realizes that something is different. Looking up into his face, Darcy has a moment to register that Bucky is somewhere else—lost in some awful memory—not present in the room with her.

Before she can react or say anything at all, she’s in motion, head spinning. All of a sudden, her back is against a wall and Bucky’s forearm is against her neck. He isn’t hurting her, just holding her there. She can’t move, and is afraid of pushing against him. She’s terrified, and her mind is too panicked to remember what the hell she’s supposed to do during a PTSD flashback.

After a second, clarity rushes in and she taps against the wall—not against him, Darce, don’t touch him—and rasps his name. “Bucky. Bucky, it’s Darcy. Bucky, come back to me.”

His eyes start to clear the moment she says her name. By the time she’s said his name a third time, he blinks. Realization spreads lightning-fast over his face, and his expression becomes a mask of utter devastation. He springs away from her, staring down at his arm with horror. A cry falls from his lips—her name. “Darcy. Oh god, Darcy.”

She reaches out to him, offering a brave smile. “Bucky, I’m okay. We’re okay. You didn’t hurt me, just scared us both a little bit.”

He pulls away from her reach as if he might get burned, and it’s clear he’s not registering a thing she says.

Backpedaling rapidly, he mutters frantically, “I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t hurt you, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

And then he’s gone, the door sliding shut with a click behind him. The sound of it echoes in her head with an air of finality.

* * *

For a moment, Darcy can’t do anything but stare in the direction he fled.

Well, shit.

Sliding down the wall, she props her elbows on her knees and buries her head in her hands.

_Just breathe, Darce. You’ll be okay._ She silently repeats it to herself, over and over.

Darcy doesn’t know how long she sits, trying to breathe, before Natasha is there with her. All she knows is that one moment she’s alone and in the next Natasha is with her, still in her tac suit, offering a shoulder to lean on. Darcy falls into her with a sob, and Nat’s hand comes up to stroke her hair. They sit together in silence for a long time, Darcy drawing from her friend’s bottomless well of support.

Eventually Darcy lifts her head and tries to joke, “Are you going to tell me ‘I told you so’?” but it’s a completely failed effort, coming out as a snot-filled sniffle.

Natasha gently coaxes Darcy’s head back into the crook of her shoulder. After a second, waiting for Darcy to relax into her hold, she questions, “For what? I was wrong, milaya. Unless Friday neglected to tell me something, and he did actually hurt you?”

Feeling Nat’s stare burning a hole into the top of her head, Darcy cranes her neck upward and reassures, “No, he didn’t.” She looks back down at the floor, hesitates, then confesses, “But I was scared, Nat. God, I was scared of him. Of Bucky.” All she sees is his expression the moment he came back to himself—the horror and the shame sweeping across his face. “I told him I trusted him, and still I was afraid. Nat, what kind of person does that make me?”

With a gentle but unyielding finger, Natasha guides Darcy’s chin up so that their eyes meet. “It makes you human, golubushka. It makes you smart. James is not a weak man, and he was not in control of himself. It means you have good instincts. And none of us, especially James, would ever want you to lose that. It could save your life one day.” Natasha pauses, allowing the weight of her words to sink in. “We love you, Darcy. All of us. And we’ll never be upset that you follow your instincts to keep yourself safe.”

Darcy knows that, and she appreciates it. She believes Nat, understanding on a logical level that her fear during Bucky’s flashback was an instinctive response and not anything to be ashamed of. At the same time, though, she wonders if it ended up costing her Bucky. She’s always had more faith in him than he has in himself. And now he thinks she lost it—she knows he saw her fear.

Her doubt must be written all over her face, because Natasha reiterates, “You did nothing wrong. Just because you had a reasonable, instinctive reaction to the threat of danger does not mean you trust him any less.” Hesitating momentarily, she continues, “I know you might not want to hear this right now, but you didn’t drive James away. He let his own fears and doubts do that. You’ve always had more trust in him than he has in himself, and if he walked away because he didn’t trust himself not to hurt you, that’s on him. Not on you. And there’s nothing you can do about it; believing in himself is something only James can change.”

There’s no way Darcy can argue with Nat; after all, it’s almost exactly what she’d been thinking to herself only a moment ago. She is at fault, though, at least in part. “But I did screw up, Nat. I pushed him. He tried to tell me he didn’t feel comfortable and I still pushed him. I ignored what he needed in favor of what I wanted.” Fresh tears track down her cheeks as she berates herself. “I don’t even know why I pushed,” she huffs miserably.

“You made a mistake, milaya. It was inconsiderate, what you did, and pushy.” Darcy feels every word like a dart to the chest, the truth of them piercing through her. She was so arrogant, to assume she knew better than Bucky what his limits were. And damn it, she knew better. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not that she’ll get the chance.

“But—” Nat jiggles her shoulder under Darcy’s head to make sure she’s listening, not wallowing in self-recrimination, “—those are the things people do in the beginning of a relationship. They make minor mistakes, step on each other’s toes. If James isn’t ready for that, then he’s not ready for a relationship with you. Not to mention that it isn’t much of a relationship if only one of you is able to make stupid mistakes or it all goes sideways.”

“I know, you’re right. You’re always right. I just—” Darcy sniffles, tears drying on her cheeks and phlegm clogging her throat. No one ever called her a delicate crier. “I just wanted it to work out, so badly.” Wiping at her eyes, Darcy chuckles wetly. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

Natasha smiles at her, then teases, “You are. But you’re my favorite mess.”

Giggling, Darcy replies, “I won’t tell Clint you said that. But thank you. I love you, Nat.”

A gentle hand runs through her hair. “And I you, golubushka.”

Rubbing her forehead into Natasha’s shoulder, she asks, “Is it pathetic if I just want to sit here for a while? I don’t want to move.”

Darcy can feel Nat settle more firmly against the wall, the only answer she needs. “We can stay here as long as you like, milaya.”

And they do.

* * *

She gets a text from him the next day.

_I’m sorry_

That’s all it says, and Bucky doesn’t show for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner that day.

Or the next, or the day after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.
> 
> I've already said this to some of you in the comments, but I always promise a happy ending. So if you'll stick around I promise to give these beans the lovely ending we all know they deserve. ❤️ ❤️
> 
> This chapter was really hard for me to write, so I’d appreciate feedback if you have it. :) be gentle, please.


	7. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's official: Mondays are the days from hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t warned for this so far, but language amps up in this chapter. For obvious reasons, Darcy is pretty frustrated.
> 
> Also, violence-nothing outside the norm for canon, though.
> 
> (thanks to Wino and InAmberClad for helping me make sure a particular sequence in this chapter actually makes sense. Y'all are the best!)

The next three weeks are hell for Darcy.

Aside from the one text from Bucky, she doesn’t hear from him or see him at all. And to be honest, she’s too angry about that measly _I’m sorry_ to be the one to reach out. It’s not even the loss of their fledgling relationship that hits her so hard, though that stings like hell. What hurts her the most is the loss of their friendship, which had been solidifying for months into something beautiful and wholly built on trust.

Darcy would have understood, after the episode in the gym, if Bucky decided that he needed to slow down or even halt their romantic relationship. But to cut her out of his life completely, and so abruptly, just felt cruel.

She’s been around the Avengers and superheroes in general long enough to recognize the whole _I’m too dangerous for you, and instead of letting you make that decision for yourself, I’m going to torture both of us by ignoring your agency and walking away without giving you a choice_. And if she’s a little specific with the scenario, well, she has experience with it: it’s the reasoning Thor used when he left Jane. Apparently, stupidity in relationships isn’t confined to the men of Earth.

To have Bucky do that to her, with a half-formed text message that didn’t even provide a rationale?

Yeah, fuck that.

So, she’s spitting mad. She’s mad at herself, still, for pushing. That pales in comparison to the anger she now feels toward Bucky, though, for casting her aside like a toy that’s lost its shine. She’s mad at Jane, for not being home yet, and at Nat, for being right about everything. It’s not rational, but she can’t seem to get rid of all this fury that’s building inside of her, overwhelming and choking her with its intensity.

Something inside of her breaks later that week. Halfway through a frustrating and fruitless training session, Natasha gently but firmly sends Darcy home. With eyes that see too much, she says, “Milaya, there’s no point in you trying to train like this. Go home.” Nat’s never been one to coddle her, and her words cut deep. All Darcy can hear is _you're useless_ and _go home_. The borderline-sympathetic look on Nat’s face is worse because it just seems to verify all Darcy's insecurities. The anger spikes further; she doesn’t want pity, and definitely not from Nat.

Trying not to let her friend see the hurt that flickers across her expression, Darcy ducks her chin, hunches in on herself, and walks away. Before she can go far, Natasha stops her with a hand on the arm. “Darcy, I’m not trying to hurt you. But this is not the kind of anger that makes you more productive. It’s the kind that causes you to slip and make a mistake, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” She tries to make eye contact as she speaks, but Darcy refuses to look up. Her emotions are erratic, racing all over the map, and Darcy can barely hear a word her friend says. Ever observant, Nat knows that she isn’t getting through and releases Darcy’s arm, sighing in a rare show of frustration.

Darcy stumbles backward, tripping her way out of the gym and into the hallway. She doesn’t even stop to pick up her water bottle or gym bag, so focused on getting to the elevator without breaking apart. By the time she arrives back in her apartment Darcy is shaking with fatigue and a fiery burn of humiliation and frustration that refuses to fade no matter what she does. She strips on the way to the bathroom, flinging her clothing to the floor with unnecessary force.

Turning the shower handle a touch too roughly, Darcy steps into the scalding spray. The fury streaks heedlessly through her veins, as hot as the water that beats down on her, and she washes herself with forceful, jerky motions. It finally burns itself out as she rinses the conditioner out of her hair, leaving her shaking and breathless and utterly exhausted.

With a fist balled up against the wall of the shower, Darcy takes deep, shuddering breaths. For long moments, she just focuses on breathing, in and then out. As she does, she comes to a realization, which despite its simplicity has escaped her until now. Darcy has been hiding behind her anger, but there's a deeper emotion that's been magnifying it and sending her spiraling out of control.

She’s hurt, deeply.

Bucky’s abandonment feels like a knife wound that hasn’t been allowed to heal; it seeps and bleeds into everything she does, bringing all her worst insecurities to light. She has been ignoring it, pretending she’s fine. With sudden clarity, Darcy knows that nothing is going to get better for her until she accepts it and makes herself let it go.

Easier said than done, she knows. Even after everything, Darcy misses Bucky’s companionship desperately. But still, she must do something. She wants to stop feeling like a bomb about to go off.

There’s no time like the present, so Darcy braces herself against the wall and tries to pull herself together. She reminds herself to breathe, then attempts to face her fears. The thought of facing them at all leaves her paralyzed, and she's too exhausted to conquer even one of them. Eventually, she just lets her mind go blissfully blank and tries to relax.

By the time she’s ready to get out of the shower, the water has long since run cold.

Hours later, Darcy opens her apartment door and almost trips over her gym bag, water bottle nestled neatly inside. There's a note, written in Natasha's precise handwriting.

я люблю тебя

_I love you_

After a long moment of frantic blinking, Darcy takes her things inside the apartment where there's no one to see her cry. The note makes its way to a place of honor next to her bed.

 

* * *

 

Even with her vow to maintain a more positive outlook, the following weeks are tough for Darcy.

Things get both better and worse with a visit from Steve. He catches her in the hallway, springing out of nowhere from the common room as she passes by on her way to the elevator. He must have been lying in wait, because the lights are still off when he steps into her path and greets her oh-so-casually.

(Since the incident, the common room has fallen back into disuse; Darcy doesn't brew her coffee in that room anymore, doesn't have a reason to.)

If she were in a better place, Darcy would be highly amused at the thought of Captain America loitering in a darkened, empty room waiting to ambush someone for an awkward conversation. As it is, all Darcy can do is muster a resigned greeting. Better to just grin and bear it; Steve’s stubbornness is legendary. Besides, he's still her friend. She thinks.

Ten seconds into the stilted conversation and it becomes incredibly clear that Steve is terrible at small talk. He tries, he really does, but he just can’t pull it off. Anxiety is written all over his face, and he keeps losing his train of thought. He’s clearly gearing up to address the tension between them—even though they both know that it really has nothing to do with Steve, and everything to do with his best friend.

A part of Darcy chuckles at the thought of Steve cleaning up after Bucky’s faux pas. The man isn't exactly the epitome of social grace, after all. When she thinks about it, though, Steve has been doing a lot of cleaning up after his best friend for the last several years. So maybe he’s used to it by now.  
  
Steve eventually finds his courage and just dives headlong into the conversation Darcy is really hoping to avoid. Every part of her is screaming to run from what’s coming; she really doesn’t want to go through the rejection all over again. Oblivious to her reaction, or more likely just ignoring it, Steve tries to bridge the gap. Hesitantly, he says, “Darce, I know you probably really don’t want to talk about it—”

She opens her mouth to suggest that they can just drop it, then, but Steve rushes on. “Bucky, he—look, he just really needs to get his head on straight. He doesn’t want to hurt you and he’s—”

She cuts him off with a harsh slicing motion of her hand, utterly incapable of hearing anything more. “Steve, you don’t need to make excuses for him. I get it, really. I understand. No hard feelings, right? He’s gotta do what’s best for him. You don’t need to worry—I’m not going to force my company on him.” She attempts to grin, but it’s really more a thin slash of the lips. “It’ll get less awkward eventually.”

“No, Darce, listen—”

Cutting him off again, she interjects, “No. Seriously, Steve. It's fine. Don’t write checks you can’t cash, alright?” Feeling a little hunted, she fibs, “Hey, look, I appreciate the effort, but I've gotta run and do something in the lab. I'll see you around, okay?”

Steve lets her go, even though she knows he sees right through her flimsy excuse.

He doesn’t disappear from her life, though—not like Bucky. Steve’s a stubborn one, and he obviously refuses to give up on their friendship. He makes sure to spend some time with her at least once a day when he’s in the tower, and they even continue to meet up for meals. In silent agreement, they order takeout every single time, and neither one of them ever says anything about the change in routine.

Sometimes Darcy catches Steve staring at her, his expression tense as if he desperately wants to say something. A couple of times he even opens his mouth, ready to bridge the gap, before he thinks better of it. The well of hurt that sits in her chest and all the insecurities rekindled by the whole situation prevent Darcy from opening up, and she steadfastly ignores his clear desire to address the elephant in the room. In the end, he doesn’t push and Darcy is too much of a coward to initiate the conversation. She really doesn’t want to know what he would say, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Jane’s not even back in the tower for 24 hours before everything goes to shit.

With the way things are going for Darcy, she shouldn’t even be surprised when Jane decides to head straight to the lab when she arrives at the tower. Apparently, her boss had some kind of crucial epiphany on the overnight flight from Belgium that requires immediate attention. She doesn’t even stop by the apartment before she heads to the lab. With her head so wrapped up in science, Jane forgets to update Darcy on her plans. When Jane’s expected arrival time passes without any kind of word, Darcy has to get an update from Friday on her location. Darcy probably should have expected that in order to see her best friend who’s been out of the country for well over a month, she has to go to work on a Monday at 6:00 AM. It really fits the theme of the last few weeks, but there’s not much she won’t do for her best friend.

One small favor is that Dr. Walters has apparently been sent home to rest after the long flight, so Darcy gets to visit Jane without any outsiders. Which, she discovers, doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Janie, you’re back!” All she gets in response is a noncommittal grunt, and Darcy isn’t too proud to admit that the lukewarm greeting hurts. Needing her best friend, she tries again, aiming for a light reminder.

Darcy chirps airily, “It’s been months since we’ve had best friend time. Isn’t that crazy? And it’s not like Skype really counts, right?” Pushing for some kind of acknowledgment that Jane missed her too, Darcy adds, “And now that you’re back we can resume our Taco Tuesdays. Nat and I have been depressingly sober without you.”

Jane doesn’t even laugh. Without looking up from her research—she hasn’t looked at Darcy at all since she came in—she sighs, “Darcy, I missed you too. But I really have to finish jotting this down right now, okay? I can’t take the chance that I’ll forget something important. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to—I can come find you later.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Darcy hovers in place for a moment, trying to figure out if she should stay—she really missed Jane—or if she should go. As has been frequent for the last several weeks, the hurt wins. Without another word, Darcy heads back the way she came. A resentful part of her wonders how long it will take Jane to notice that Darcy’s gone— _she won’t_ , it whispers. _You’re not needed here anymore_. Darcy knows that’s not true, but she can’t summon the energy to silence the doubts.

On her way out the door, Darcy almost runs into Natasha. It’s too much to hope that Nat can’t see the pain in her expression or the slight moisture in her eyes, but Darcy still averts her gaze. Nat just quirks a brow at her, gaze sliding past her shoulder to where Jane is still bent over a tablet. Gaze sliding back to Darcy, Natasha says, “I heard our favorite scientist had made it back from Belgium.” A slight hesitation, and then, “Is this a bad time?”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Nah, go for it.” She adds bitterly, “If you can get her to actually greet you or give you a hug, let me know. I couldn’t even get her to look at me.”

Without another glance over her shoulder—she needs to get out of there before she explodes—Darcy can’t resist one last parting shot. She scoffs, “Maybe if I go make some food I can tempt her away from the lab like a good little scientist.” Her tone is a little harsher than she means it to be, but this is not the reunion she’s spent weeks envisioning.

The silence in the lab is deafening, and Natasha just looks between the two of them for a moment before disappearing back into the hallway. Darcy turns, knowing that of course Jane heard _that_ part. Jane says nothing, just staring at her. Hurt swims in her eyes, mixing with growing anger, but Darcy ignores it. “Oh, so now you’re listening to me?” With a caustic chuckle, she gibes, “Of course that’s what it takes.”

“Darcy—”

“Nah, Jane, go back to your research. Maybe I’ll be around when you aren’t too busy to greet your best friend.”

With that last barb, Darcy storms out of the lab. She doesn’t stop moving until she’s inside the elevator, breathing hard and struggling not to cry. This is _not_ how she expected today to go.

Taking a deep breath, Darcy reaches to direct the elevator to her floor. At the last second, she changes her mind and jabs the button for the lobby. She has no desire to go up to the apartment she shares with Jane; at this point, it’ll only hurt.

The whole tower is pressing in, suffocating her, and she needs out.

 

* * *

 

Darcy wanders through the city, steaming with anger. It scorches through her, unrelenting, a haze of fire covering her vision. After about an hour of aimless walking, though, it finally burns itself out. She’s left feeling bereft and empty, with nowhere to go.

Like an epiphany, she’s all too aware of the shitty things she said to Jane. Treating her best friend like a child, condescending to her—the best friend she hasn’t seen in months, the one she’s been desperately missing. _Darcy, what have you done?_

After how angry and frustrated she’s felt toward Bucky these last three weeks for abandoning their friendship, for not treating her as an equal, she goes and does something similar to Jane. Darcy’s whole body crumples, pervaded by shame and regret. She leans against a nearby building for a moment to take deep breaths.

She knows, now, that she’s been a nightmare to deal with ever since Bucky abandoned her in the gym. Instead of appreciating the friendships she still has with others in the tower, Darcy let the self-righteous hurt she felt in the wake of the _incident_ to poison her interactions with Steve, Natasha, and now even Jane.

Steve, who has been resolutely pouring effort into their friendship even though it must put him in an incredibly awkward position with Bucky. Natasha, who just wants to keep Darcy safe and sane and happy. And now Jane, Darcy’s best friend in this galaxy and the next, whose love for her knows no bounds.

Well, Jane may love her unconditionally, but Darcy owes her an apology anyway. Deciding that there’s no time like the present, she pushes off the wall with one hand and pulls her phone out of her pocket with the other. As she dials, Darcy drifts through the streets aimlessly. Her entire focus centers on the phone call, and it’s slightly anticlimactic when Jane doesn’t pick up.

She could be busy—despite Darcy’s cruel tone from earlier, there is some truth to her words—or Jane could just be avoiding her call, needing some space. Darcy can’t blame her, really. But since she’s already on the line, she might as well try to mend some of the hurt she caused.

When Darcy gets the prompt for the voicemail, she sputters, “Hey, Janie. I just wanted to call and say you're right, I was a total asshole. I can't believe I said that to you, and there's no excuse for it. I just—I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. And I’m not trying to bribe you, but I’m gonna head by that place you like and get some of those sopapillas you like. Not as a bribe, but as…an apology. Yeah. Okay, that's it…I love you, Jane.”

Darcy leaves it at that, too choked up to continue, and besides she owes it to Jane to say anything further in person. As she taps her phone to end the message, Darcy realizes that she's accidentally wandered into an unfamiliar part of Manhattan—Hell’s Kitchen, maybe? She stops for a moment, getting her bearings.

As she mentally maps the most efficient way to get back to the nearest A/C subway stop, Darcy gradually gains awareness of a prickle on the back of her neck. A surreptitious glance behind her confirms that yes, there are two men striding behind her. They’re attempting to look inconspicuous, but there’s something off about them. That sixth sense for danger that Nat has spent months beating into her is trilling anxiously, and a frisson of fear races down her spine. A second glance, and Darcy realizes why; neither of the men is attempting to look anywhere but at her.

They're even dressed all in black. Someone's clearly been reading _Villains Monthly_. For a second, Darcy dares to hope that they're just innocent pedestrians who happen to look unsavory—it's New York, damn it; weirder things have happened. She's forced to abandon that idea, though, when one of the men behind her leers maliciously. _Yeah, nope. Not your lucky day, Darce_.

Facing forward, Darcy remembers that she’s still holding her phone in her hand. Raising it, she moves to unlock it and call the tower (because who calls the police when you have the Avengers on hand, ready to kick some ass?), but is brought up short. Damn it, she completely missed the third man coming from the opposite direction. He’s craftier than the two behind her, and is much closer. She doesn’t have time to call; he’s almost on her.

As they approach, her hands shake. The assholes are boxing her in, stalking closer with predatory grins. With two at her back and one in front on the narrow street, there's no way for Darcy to make it past them, even at a dead sprint. She needs to change the odds.

It'll be a fight, then. _Okay, Darcy. You'll be fine. One at a time._

Panic creeps, immobilizing her for a moment. But then there’s an internal voice, one that sounds a lot like Natasha, running her through a mental assessment of the situation. _They underestimate you_ , it purrs. _Make them pay for it. Make it hurt._

So she does.

Darcy’s odds are better with the single man in front of her rather than the two behind, so she keeps moving forward. Casting fearful glances toward the two behind her, she acts meek and terrified (not too difficult, really). Without looking at her phone, Darcy redials her last call—Jane. Even if she can’t get through, there needs to be some record of what happened to her. Darcy’s friends are going to raise hell, after all.

Goon #1 comes closer, expecting to catch her unaware. When he's in reach, the man taunts her with a cocky, “Boo.” He's definitely not expecting a punch to the face, but that's what he gets. She sends her left fist at his cheekbone, following it up with a right elbow to the nose—yeah, that's broken for sure, there's blood everywhere.

He howls in pain.

As his hands come up to protect his gushing nose, Darcy grips the man’s shoulder and sends a couple of hard knees to his groin.

The would-be kidnapper begins to fold in on himself, still groaning, completely surprised that his supposedly-easy mark is determined to fight back. Capitalizing on his shocked agony, Darcy uses her grip on the injured man’s shoulder and upper bicep to pivot, hurtling him into one of the men behind her. Goon #2 isn't fast enough to dodge, and the two of them go down in a heap. Which just leaves Goon #3.

Natasha's voice is shouting at her now. _Time to run, milaya. RUN._

Darcy listens, pivoting back around and sprinting away as fast as she can. Pounding sounds on the pavement behind her, and damn it the intersecting street is too far—

An involuntary shriek escapes her as she's seized by the shoulder and flung into a parked car. Darcy sees stars, breath completely knocked out of her. Her vision blacks out momentarily, but she gathers herself just in time to see the hands reaching for her throat.

Darcy attempts to dodge, but she's not fast enough. Goon #3 presses her further into the car, squeezing and squeezing. Spots cloud her vision, and her mind goes utterly blank. She can't think, she can't breathe.

Sensing victory, her attacker presses harder on her throat, and Darcy’s hands scrabble at the car ineffectually. One of the other assholes calls from down the street, groaning, “Don't kill her! We need the bitch alive.”

And right now, that doesn't exactly make her feel better—where the hell are they planning on taking her? Goon #3 isn't swayed, though; the malice in his eyes lets her know he isn't going to stop. He wants her dead.

That thought centers her, and all of a sudden Nat’s voice is back, urging her to move. Immediately Darcy’s arms reach up, and she's fighting him. Hard.

She hooks her arms over and around his forearms at her neck, pressing their wrists together. Snapping her elbows to either side of her body, dragging his hands away with pure momentum, Darcy breaks his hold on her neck and traps his arms against her. At the same time, she lashes out with her right foot and delivers a devastating kick to his groin—the dumbass left it unprotected. He reels forward, groaning loudly, and Darcy feels a vicious stab of satisfaction.

As he pitches forward she grips the black tac shirt on his right shoulder with her right hand, pressing her arm heavily across his chest to keep him in place. With her left, she grabs his bicep roughly, holding his right arm away from her. She uses her grip to sharply drive her knee into his groin once, twice, three times.

Goon #3 is useless at this point; he clearly wasn’t expecting her to be able to break his choke hold. Darcy takes advantage of his arrogance, rotating her body to thrust him toward the car and run. As soon as her hands have released her attacker Darcy takes the opportunity, and sprints off down the street. She allows herself a tiny grin when she hears the solid thud of him hitting the car, and she idly wonders if she should be insulted; shouldn't kidnappers be more skilled than this? Not that she’s interested in sticking around to find out.

Less than ten seconds later, she’s kicking herself for tempting fate. She’s almost made it, so close to freedom, when one of the other two gets the drop on her and catches her from behind. She’s halfway through a scream for help when there’s a loud cracking noise and a sharp pain in her neck.

Then she's falling, falling, unable to catch herself.

Everything fades to black, even as she struggles to maintain consciousness. She has to keep fighting, but her body won't respond.

Darcy’s last fuzzy thought before she succumbs to darkness is that she really fucking hates Mondays.

Natasha will be so disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *holds out cookies* pls don’t hate me
> 
> You can come say hi (or rant, but I prefer nice things) at bloomsoftly.tumblr.com. I sometimes post sneak peeks there if you just can’t wait for the next chapter :)


	8. The Two Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's determined to move forward. But he's still a little bit dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from a quote by Fulton Oursler - “Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future.”
> 
> **
> 
> So bear with me, but we still don’t find out what happened to Darcy in this chapter. I wanted to provide Bucky’s POV of the gym aftermath before we moved too far ahead.
> 
> I hope I did it justice.

Bucky knows he’s made a mistake the moment he leaves Darcy in the gym.

He’s shaking, horrified at losing his hard-won control around her, terrified of what he could have done to her on accident.

But every step he takes away from her hurts worse than the last, and he’s surprised to find that he feels no relief at his decision to leave her alone.

By the time he makes it to the elevator and punches the button for his and Steve’s floor, the sense of loss is crippling.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the cool metal of the wall, attempting to temporarily stave off the inevitable migraine. Behind his eyelids, though, all he can see is the stricken look on Darcy’s face as he walked—no, ran—away.

It repeats over and over, the way her eyes widened first with confusion, then with pain. And the way she called out for him as he fled still rings in his ears, silencing everything else.

And despite all the doubt he’s felt about opening up and letting her in, all his fears of hurting her, he doesn't feel any validation now that the worst has come to pass. He’s just…empty. And lost.

The elevator dings its arrival, and Bucky drifts toward his apartment on autopilot. A constant refrain of all the horrific could-have-beens are still racing through his brain, blending poorly with his guilt over leaving her there.

It builds and builds until he jolts to a stop just in front of his doorstep.

As he reaches for the door, a niggling question that's been shouting at the back of his mind manifests itself into a coherent thought and begs for attention. He was the deadliest assassin alive for seventy years, almost three times the length of time Darcy has even been alive.

_So why did he not actually hurt her?_

He held her against the wall, yes, but as Darcy pointed out it was more of a restraining brace than anything else. The number of moves he could have used to incapacitate her ( _or_ _worse)_ in that amount of time is staggering, and yet. Yet, he didn’t.

It’s not like she could have stopped him. Darcy has been working hard and her self-defense has improved immeasurably, but the only way she’d ever be able to match him in skill is if she was injected with some version of the super soldier serum herself.

Even just thinking that feels like tempting fate, so he offers up a short prayer. _Please, God, not Darcy._

So Bucky knows he’s made a mistake, leaving her there. Because she was right.

He feels guilty for hurting her, but he feels more shame for running away. She was so scared, and he left her there.

Not knowing what to do, with the dreaded migraine already forming behind his left eye, Bucky stumbles into his apartment.

He barely makes it to his bedroom before the migraine explodes beneath his skull and Bucky collapses into bed, unable to think or breathe or speak for the pain.

 

* * *

 

Bucky tries, once, to let Darcy know that he's made a mistake. The morning after he leaves her in the gym, he sits down at the table in his apartment and tries to think of what he can say that will express his shame for leaving, his sorrow for hurting her, and his dedication to getting better.

The words won't come. He sits there for a long time, watching the sunlight creep across the floor. The only sound in the apartment is the clock ticking on the wall, and still the words won't come.

Bucky wants to say _Please forgive me_ and _I don't want to hurt you_ and _Don't give up on m_ e and _I want to deserve you,_ but the words are all a jumbled mess in his head.

He gets as far as _I'm sorry_ before the anxiety overwhelms him. The phone clatters from his fingertips and he hunches in on himself, struggling to breathe. Everything is faded and muffled, like he’s under water. That thought causes him to panic, and he begins to hyperventilate.

The next thing he knows, Steve’s pulling him from the chair, coaxing him away from where the phone has skidded across the table.

“C’mon, Buck,” he says. “Don't worry about that right now, okay? She'll understand. You can wait until you're ready.”

Bucky allows himself to get pulled to the couch and bundled up in a blanket. Steve fusses over him like his ma used to do, tucking the edges in around him and making vague soothing noises.

When Bucky grumbles as much to Steve, voice hoarse from exhaustion, his best friend chuckles and offers a nostalgic grin. “Yeah, well, you took care of me so many times when we were kids I figure I owe ya one or a thousand.”

Bucky tries to protest further, shifting grumpily on the couch, but Steve cuts him off with his trump card. “‘Til the end of the line, pal. Remember?” Of course he does, and Bucky's pretty sure that was his line first. Still, Bucky is immeasurably grateful for Steve’s steadfast loyalty.

Warm and secure on the couch, Bucky takes a moment to let himself think.

Compartmentalizing the events of yesterday, he allows himself to recognize that he's been plateauing in his recovery for a while. Spending time with Steve and Darcy allowed him to feel happy, and mostly-functioning, and he stopped giving therapy its due effort.

He needed that for a while, he thinks. To just _be_ —happy with his two favorite people in the world, not thinking about next steps, allowed to be safe and secure and unburdened.

But now that he wants more, no longer satisfied with the status quo, Bucky forces himself to think about his next steps for recovery.

Vague ideas morph into plans of action, which he runs by Steve.

Both of them still have a hard time talking about mental stuff, but Steve is so earnest that somehow they stumble past the awkwardness.

Slowly, Bucky overcomes his trepidation and explains how he wants to move forward. Steve’s so loyal that Bucky thinks he might agree to anything, if Bucky thinks it will help. Either way, Steve slumps in relief when he hears what Bucky wants to do and agrees immediately to his plan.

At Bucky’s behest, Steve leaves the apartment to call Sam. Before he goes, though, he grips Bucky’s shoulder affectionately for a long moment. The warmth lingers on Bucky’s skin for a long time afterward.

Now that he’s formed a general plan for moving forward, Bucky tries to decide how to mend things with Darcy. His anxiety spikes as he considers his options, and his mind skitters away from the thought of approaching her in person. Bucky isn't ready for that, yet. He'll make some progress first, and then apologize for running away.

A little more clear-headed now, Bucky is immensely glad he didn't follow through in sending a text to Darcy. It would have been cowardly—better to wait until he can muster the strength to ask for forgiveness to her face.

When that will be, he isn’t sure, but he can’t bring himself to face her until he’s able to demonstrate real progress.

Part of him hopes that Darcy will make the first move and berate him for his stupidity in leaving or demand an apology—anything, really—but she doesn't reach out.

Life goes on.

 

* * *

 

The meeting with Sam goes about as well as can be expected.

Despite the various conflicts of interest present in Sam’s professional relationship with Bucky—the primary being the fact that he’s in a serious romantic relationship with Bucky’s best friend—he always treats their conversations with utmost confidentiality.

More importantly, he always gives Bucky the support he needs in a conversation, no matter what. Even when Bucky talks about the incident in the gym, Sam still focuses on Bucky—his reactions, his needs, his fears—even though Darcy is his friend too.

Still, Bucky isn't surprised when Sam suggests that he transition into seeing someone else for therapy. “I’d like to have the chance to really get to know you, Bucky, and become true friends. To be blunt, I think the therapist-client relationship keeps us from doing that.”

Bucky’s already thought of that, too. It's been a part of his stagnation, relying on Sam to help him with what he needs instead of finding someone who can help him wholeheartedly, without caveats or personal investment in the outcome.

That being said, Bucky doesn't exactly have the best history with unknown psychologists. It doesn't matter if the Hydra programming is gone; the thought of trusting someone new with his therapy sends Bucky’s heartrate thrumming. His palm starts to sweat, and he shifts in his seat.

Sam reads him as easily as ever. “Barnes, I have someone I can recommend, someone I served with. A soldier I would trust with my life, and with yours.”

Trust is something Bucky is working on. He trusts Steve, and Darcy, and he would like to trust Sam. As soon as his throat works again, Bucky acquiesces. _Another step forward_ , he thinks.

“Cool. I'll get you her contact information, and let her know you're gonna reach out. But before I do, Steve told me there's another type of therapy you'd like to try?”

Bucky nods, throat dry. It'll mean putting his issues on display for the whole world to see, but he hasn't been able to stop thinking about the idea for weeks.

Sam’s grin lights up his whole face, and he claps his hands excitedly. “Man, I’ve been ready for this for weeks.” When Bucky cocks his head in confusion, Sam snorts. “C’mon, Barnes, you should’ve seen your face when you were cuddling with those puppies. This was always gonna happen eventually.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. That was one of the best mornings he’s had since before World War II, all thanks to Darcy. A sharp pang of yearning seizes him, but he just inhales deeply and forces himself to stay present in the conversation.

Sam looks at him knowingly, like he can read the direction Bucky’s thoughts have taken, so Bucky diverts quickly. “So, do you think you could help me get a therapy dog? I don’t know how none of that works.”

Grinning at him, Sam leans back in his seat. “Yeah, Bucky, I’ve got you covered. Did all the license requirements and everything. Just been waitin’ for you to give me the ‘go’ signal.”

Well, that’s a bit of a relief. “So, what next?”

With a wink, Sam replies, “Now all you’ve got to do is meet the right dog, and I think I may have already found him for you.”

“Yeah?” He might sound skeptical, but come on. Surely Sam isn’t that good at his job.

“Yeah. His name’s Dodger.”

“You gotta be kidding me. Like the Brooklyn Dodgers?”

“Yeah. See what I mean? Perfect.” Sam pulls out his phone, already typing. “I’ll set it up. Will you be ready tomorrow? No time like the present to take the plunge.” As he speaks, he looks up from his phone distractedly.

Bucky’s not sure he could stop Sam even if he wanted to, with all the effort the other man has already poured into preparing this for him.

It doesn’t matter, though. He’s ready for this.

_Another step forward_.

 

* * *

 

It turns out Sam _is_ that good at his job.

The first meeting between canine and human is awkward, if only because there are so many other humans around. Bucky is still uncomfortable as the center of attention, and he’s obviously never met Dodger’s handler, Dan. So he’s a little stiff, a little jumpy. No one calls him out on it, and Dodger doesn’t seem to judge.

Throughout the meeting, the black lab sits perfectly still at his handler’s side. He looks friendly, with expressive eyes and a tongue that doesn’t always stay perfectly in his mouth (Bucky’s not really in the habit of using _cute_ as a descriptor, but Dodger’s happy expression might make the cut). His long tail wags only a couple of times, though, when he meets the eyes of someone else in the room, and he never gets up to explore.

This, explains the handler, is because Dodger is ‘working.’ He’s trained to focus on his human’s well-being, and doesn’t allow himself to get sidetracked. “During free time, though,” Dan laughs, “he can be a bit of a monster.” His eyes shine a bit wetly as he looks at Dodger, which everyone pretends not to see.

There’s a long conversation in which they discuss the ways that Dodger can help Bucky with his PTSD and which commands to use with him and when, and by the end of it all Bucky is utterly exhausted. For the first time since moving to the tower, he’s grateful for the presence of an AI that can record everything and recite instructions back to him later if necessary.

Eventually, it’s time to make the switch.

The handler tries to hide it, but he’s clearly devastated at having to say goodbye. Bucky feels a stirring of sympathy for him, and for a moment he wonders what exactly Sam did to acquire the dog. He looks at Sam in concern, worried that he’s somehow forcing the man to give up his dog. Sam shakes his head, and Dan catches the silent exchange.

“No, man, it’s alright. Dodger’s trained for this—it’s just that I’ve been with him since he was weaned, you know? I always knew I’d have to part with him eventually, so that he could help someone who needed him more.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I don’t know if I’m crossing a line in saying this, sir, but I can’t imagine giving Dodger to someone who deserves him more than you. Thank you for your service, Sergeant Barnes, and I hope Dodger is as much a friend to you as he has been to me.”

Steve excuses himself from the room, dabbing at the corner of his eyes. Bucky is also touched by Dan’s words, so he gives him a nod and a tremulous smile before he has to look away to collect himself. Sam steps in to help, saying, “Thank you, man. Do you want us to give you a minute alone with Dodger, so you can say goodbye?”

“No, that’s alright, if you don’t mind me taking a second here.” Sam steps back, giving the two of them space.

Bucky keeps his eyes averted as the man says his last goodbyes to the dog. Giving Dodger a hug, Dan whispers praises and endearments while Bucky tries not to hear any of it. This should be a private moment for them, and Bucky feels likes he’s intruding. Not for the first time, he wishes he could shut off his enhanced hearing for a while.

After a minute, Dan stands up and gestures Bucky forward. Transferring Dodger’s leash to Bucky, he tells the dog, “Alright, Dodge. Bucky is your human now. I need you to take good care of him, okay?” The dog’s tail thumps on the floor twice as he looks between the two men.

Before it can get awkward, Sam offers to see Dan down to the lobby. They leave, and Dan pats Dodger one more time on the head on his way out. The dog whines at the door, then looks at Bucky.

Bucky tentatively puts his hand on Dodger’s head and says softly, “Sorry, pal. Guess it’s you and me, now.” Dodger pushes his nose up under Bucky’s hand and leans heavily against his leg. They stand like that, getting to know each other, until Steve steps back into the room.

The warm weight in Bucky’s chest that now belongs to Dodger feels like more progress.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is almost finished cooking dinner—he’s trying out a Puerto Rican recipe for the first time—when Steve walks in, the door thudding behind him. “Damn, Bucky, whatever you’re making smells tasty,” he calls, heading toward his room to change out of his sweaty tac suit.

Hunting for the perfect balance of spices in the rice, Bucky just hums in acknowledgement.

A minute later, Steve pokes his head around the corner and asks, “Hey, where’s Dodger? He’s usually right at the door to greet me.”

That causes Bucky’s head to snap up. “What? He was right there in the living room, chewing on a tennis ball.”

Steve shakes his head. “Well, he’s not there now. I wonder—”

“Dodge? Dodger, where are you?” Bucky calls, a little worried. How a sixty pound dog can go missing in a two bedroom apartment, he’s not really sure.

There’s a scrambling sound from the direction of Bucky’s bedroom, and then a black blur comes zooming past them. Steve doubles over in laughter. “Dodge, what the hell did ya get yourself into?”

Setting his spoon aside, Bucky follows Steve into the living room—and there’s Dodger, frantically attempting to tear the remains of a cardboard box from around his neck.

Bucky sighs, and goes to help the dog. “Damn it, Dodge, we’ve talked about this. Just because you _can_ fit your head into something, does not mean you _should_.” Dodger just grins up at him, tongue hanging out one side of his mouth.

Pointing his finger at Steve, Bucky orders, “You keep an eye on this one. I’ve got to finish dinner.”

“Aye, aye, Sergeant.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. Most days, he’s not sure whether Dodger or Steve is the worse menace to society.

Once Bucky finishes cooking (stubbornly ignoring the fact that he’s made one portion more than they strictly need), they sit down to dinner. Dodger parks himself next to Bucky’s chair; he never strays far during dinner time.

As they start eating, Bucky glances from the dog to Steve, realizing that Dodger has changed Steve’s day-to-day routine almost as much as Bucky’s.

Dodger’s not the only one who can read Bucky’s moods. Catching the look Bucky gives him, Steve asks, “What’s up, Buck? Everything alright?”

“Think you’ll be alright livin’ with a therapy dog, Steve?”

“I think I’m doing fine so far, don’t you?” Bucky flicks a piece of rice at him, dissatisfied with that response.

“Seriously, Buck, it’s great. You know I always wanted a dog when we were kids. And to see how he’s helpin’ you? I’ve got no complaints.”

“Good, punk. I’d hate to have to choose and end up kickin’ you outta your own apartment.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to throw a piece of rice at Bucky. “Jerk.”

They both studiously ignore the dog-shaped vacuum slurping the wayward food up off the floor.

 

* * *

 

“Buck, Darcy thinks—”

At the sound of Darcy’s name, Bucky visibly tenses.

Ever aware of Bucky’s stress levels, Dodger hops up onto the couch next to him. Lying on his stomach, the dog forces his head under Bucky’s hand. He wriggles forward until Bucky’s hand is gripping the fur between Dodger’s shoulder blades, then breathes deeply and evenly.

The echo of Dodger’s calm heartbeat against Bucky’s leg is as centering as always, and he gathers himself enough to say, “Steve, I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this. I know it ain’t fair to you, because you care about both of us. I want to fix things with Darce, but I’m not ready to face her yet.”

“Buck—”

“I can’t do this right now, alright?”

Steve takes a long look at his face, and relents.

“Alright, Buck, alright.”

 

* * *

 

After two weeks of adjusting to life with a therapy dog, it’s still funny to Bucky how different Dodger is when he’s at rest in the apartment versus when he’s ‘working.’  Whenever Bucky calls him to attention, Dodger is the consummate professional—alert and attuned to Bucky’s needs, ignoring everything else. Even on their increasingly-frequent jaunts outside the tower, Dodger refuses to be tempted by all the intriguing smells and people of the city. He’s a calm and steady presence at his human’s side, and Bucky hates to admit how much it actually helps.

When he’s at play, though, Dodger is a mess. He’s riotous and energetic and overall a typical Labrador puppy. When he isn’t slumped over Bucky’s feet or lap taking a nap, he’s romping around the room or bringing a ball for Bucky to throw.

Dodger isn’t at all what Bucky would have expected to help him heal, but now he wouldn’t change him for the world. Even if Bucky’s clothes are a lot more slobbery than they were before.

This morning, Bucky wakes up to a warm form pressed along his side, cuddling as close as possible.

He reaches out, sleepily hoping for a mass of dark brown waves to be strewn across the pillow next to his.

A wet snout meets his questing fingers instead, huffing warm breath over his skin. The shock of Dodger’s cold nose jerks Bucky into full wakefulness, and he opens bleary eyes to meet the dog’s perpetual grin. It's hard to be disappointed when waking up to such a happy dog, but Bucky still finds himself wishing Darcy was there to share in the moment.

It's foolish, really; he and Darcy never even touched all that casually, much less kissed or got anywhere near sleeping together. He was still skittish about touch and Darcy respected his boundaries too much to initiate unsolicited contact.

Still, Bucky craves that closeness and finds himself wishing for the opportunity to draw her into another hug, or finally in for a kiss. He misses the softness of her skin and the smell of her hair and the way it felt pressed against his cheek. It's hardest at first light, when his brain is still wrapped in hazy dreams not bound by reality’s constraints.

At those moments, he finds himself calculating ways to bridge the gap, to make things right between them once more.

Maybe she’ll accept his apology—accept _him—_ if Bucky shows her how well he’s doing, how committed he is to doing this right this time. Sam keeps telling him that’s not what his therapy is about, that he has nothing g to atone for, but a part of Bucky can’t let go of the idea that he needs to earn his way back and prove that he’s worthy of love and redemption.

It’s why he’s taken so long to approach and beg for her forgiveness. Part of him knows that she’ll agree with Sam, but a sharper, immobilizing fear of her rejection holds him still. Which is how he’s come to a place of restless dreams and half-awake fantasies of having her there with him. Every day that passes, he misses her more and more desperately, and yet can't make himself go to her.

Something has got to give, and soon.

But not right now.

Right now, Bucky’s got a dog that needs to be fed.

Together, Bucky and Dodger roll out of bed and face the day.

 

* * *

 

“Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers requires your immediate presence on the strategic planning floor.”

Bucky looks up from the recipe book he’s been compiling, Dodger sprawled at his feet. It’s rare for Steve to contact him via Stark’s AI, and Bucky never goes to the floor where the Avengers plan their missions. Whatever is going on must be serious. “Confirmed, Friday.”

Sighing, he rises to his feet; if it’s something important, it’s best not to keep Steve waiting. As he sets the recipe book aside for later, Dodger perks his ears and eyes him excitedly. “Yeah, Dodge, we’re going for a walk. Come on.” Bucky hooks the leash on the dog’s collar, and together they make their way down the hallway and to the elevator.

That sense of foreboding Bucky felt upon receiving Steve’s message explodes as he and Dodger arrive on the correct floor and enter the meeting room. For one, there are four Avengers ranging the room—a conference space, but there’s nothing on the screen, which means they’re specifically waiting for something. Secondly, not a single one of them has their back to the door, and they’re all watching him like a hawk.

Bucky wants to take a step back out the door and escape to the apartment, too overwhelmed and anxious by the screaming body language of the other men in the room. Sensing Bucky’s distress, Dodger leans heavily into his leg as support. Warmth spreads from the point of contact through the rest of Bucky’s body, providing just enough security to stop him from running.

He takes a step inside the doorway and then another to the right, so that there’s no longer empty space at his back. Confirming his suspicions, the other men in the room all shift with him, keeping their bodies facing him as he moves.

One by one, Bucky tries to meet their eyes, not understanding what is going on. Tony ignores eye contact altogether, looking at some metal object he’s spinning in his hands. Sam is giving what Bucky has dubbed his ‘therapy expression’ which could mean everything or nothing at all. Clint, the Avenger most unfamiliar to Bucky, meets his eyes for only a moment before looking away. Bucky’s startled to see a flash of sympathy in his eyes before his gaze darts to the side.

Anxiety flutters in his chest now like a caged bird, and Dodger presses even harder against his leg. Taking a shaky breath, he shoves the anxiety down to the pit of his stomach, where it settles heavily. As usual, Bucky looks to Steve for answers.

“Steve, what’s goin’ on?”

His best friend’s face is like granite, immovable and frozen. For just a second, the mask cracks and uncertainty flickers across his face, and for a moment the little boy from Brooklyn stands in his place. _No, Bucky, you can’t afford to get lost in a memory right now. Focus._

Steve’s reaching out to him, hesitant and worried. “Buck—”

Natalia bursts through the door, not even sparing a glance in Bucky’s direction. She’s a red blur of fury, the most unhinged Bucky has seen her in decades. Gone is the ever-composed spy, and in its place is the embodiment of pure panic.

“ _Where_ _is_ _she_? Find her, _now_.” Clint moves to intercept her, gripping her arms tightly. She snarls at him, ripping away from his reach.

The whole world teeters sideways. Nausea sweeps through his body, and Bucky thinks he might retch.

Natalia’s outburst is telling; there’s only one _she_ who could inspire such unbridled fear in the former assassin. With a whir, it all falls into place—her reaction plus the careful faces, the defensive positioning of the other people in the room—they expect him to react badly to whatever news Steve has to share. All together, it means that there’s only one person who could be in trouble. _Darcy_.

His fists clench, and Bucky struggles to keep his breathing even. Dodger presses urgently at his side, lending Bucky some familiarity and support. The dog’s actions remind Bucky to center himself and he sifts his fingers through Dodger’s fur, using it as a tether to reality.

He can’t afford to lose control; Darcy might need him.

God, she might need him, so he has to keep his head. Slowly, taking deep, shuddering breaths, Bucky raises his head to meet Steve’s eyes. “Tell me.”

Steve’s face is a mask of impassivity—that damn Captain America expression—but there’s a gleam of deep pain in his eyes and Bucky _knows_ what he is going to say next. “Buck, it's Darcy. She's missing.”

Against Bucky’s will, the world whitens at the edges, then everything fades to gray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So next chapter is a big one--THE big one--and I’m really nervous about it. 
> 
> PLUS, I’m now also working on two more WIPs (thanks, Wino), so it might be a minute (or two) before I can get the next chapter published. 
> 
> I’m hoping to knock it out, but encouragement and support is always appreciated. I’ll give updates/sneak peeks on my tumblr (bloomsoftly.tumblr.com), and you can always drop by and ask me whatever. :)


	9. Breathing Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest wait between chapters = longest chapter so far. I know it took a while, but I hope it’s worth the wait! There’s so much going on in this one that I wanted to make sure I did it right. This chapter was really tough for me to write, and it would make my day if you'd leave a comment. ❤
> 
> Chapter title is from the quote "As for my girls, I'll raise them to think they breathe fire" (Jessica Kirkland)
> 
> Many, many thanks to [Wino](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wino/pseuds/Wino), [Cinna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart), and [infinisei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/infinisei/pseuds/infinisei) for beta reading this chapter and making sure I’m actually telling the story I want to tell.
> 
> TW: violence, language, and a (very) brief mention of unwanted sexual contact

Darcy gains consciousness slowly, disoriented and shaking with pain. She's overcome with nausea and an excruciatingly-sharp pain in the back of her skull, and she's afraid to move and make it worse. Lying stock still with her eyes closed, she tries to figure out what happened. At first, she can't remember. She's clearly not at home, though, and her body feels like it's been put through the wringer. Darcy's afraid to open her eyes, not knowing what it is that she'll see. She remembers feeling angry, so very angry at Jane, and storming out of the tower. Then, she has a fuzzy recollection of leaving a voicemail.

But that's it, until—there was a fight. Even with her eyes closed, Darcy's head pounds. Her thoughts white out for a dizzying moment. Stubbornly, she pushes past the pain to recall what happened next. There was a fight, and Darcy took out two of her attackers. Then she ran, just like Natasha taught her. Nat would be proud of her for that.

But it wasn't enough. And now she's here.

Feigning unconsciousness—just in case someone’s watching her—Darcy takes stock of what’s going on with her body. Her head hurts like hell from where that asshole struck her, and she probably has a concussion. Her feet are leaden, but unbound; her hands, however, are tied. Without opening her eyes Darcy can't tell for sure, but she thinks they might be zip ties or something similar.

_Time to face the music, Darcy_.

Cracking one eye open slowly, she glances down at her hands. Zip ties. Okay, she can work with that. Turning her head gingerly, Darcy confirms that the room where she’s being held—approximately the size of a shoe box—is empty.

It's a rundown space, with one window, one door, and a carpeted floor covered in questionable stains. The single window is tiny and rectangular; too high to be of use—and boarded up besides—with only the faintest sunlight filtering through. The door is also no use. Darcy can't tell for sure without squinting—which, _ow_ , really doesn't help the sharp pain in her skull—but she's willing to bet the door is locked from the outside.

That settled, Darcy brings her focus back to her own body. She clenches her fingers a couple of times to get the blood flowing. Wincing from the pain, she painstakingly draws her hands toward her chest, fumbling for the secret panic button she keeps fastened to the inside of her bra. A chuckle echoes from the other side of the door and Darcy flinches, dropping her arms quickly.

Footsteps echo from the other side of the wall, and a shadow slides along the bottom of the door. There’s a series of clicks (maybe three or four locks, Darcy can’t be sure), and the doorknob starts to turn. Using her elbow, Darcy shoves herself upright. The room spins, and Darcy fights back a wave of nauseating dizziness. Her vision blurs for a crucial moment, and when it clears Darcy lets out a vicious snarl. “I should've known.”

Ian closes the door behind him and blocks it with his body, slouching against it and grinning at her insolently. There’s something off about his posture; his grin stretches too tightly across his face, much more reminiscent of a snarl than a smile, and his fingers tap a sporadic rhythm against his folded arms. “Now, is that any way to say hullo?” he chides, taking a step toward her. She brings her knees up to her chest as a barrier and scoots backward until she hits the wall. Abandoning all pretense, Darcy frantically reaches for the panic button, never taking her eyes off her captor.

“If you're looking for that nifty little panic button, don't bother—I removed it when you were brought in.” Ian shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he talks, unable to stand still. “Wanted to make sure we could have a nice little chat without any interruptions.”  Darcy’s stomach turns ferociously, rebelling at the thought of his hands on her body while she was unconscious. For a moment she wonders absurdly how Ian would handle her vomiting all over his shoes, but then she realizes— _how does he know about the panic button, much less where she keeps it?_

She stifles that train of thought when Ian leers, “Nice bra, by the way.” Giving her a once-over, he murmurs, “I heard you took down two of the guys by yourself—nice job.” Weirdly, he actually sounds like he's proud of her. Dropping his eyes to her chest, he observes, “You've been working out, haven't you?”

Darcy refuses to give him the satisfaction of watching her cower, so she keeps her hands fisted in her lap instead of reaching up to hide herself from his view.

Bravado has always been Darcy’s superpower, and this pathetic excuse for a man isn't going to make her lose her courage now. She ignores his question, glaring at him. Coldly, she asks, "What is this about, Ian? Why am I here?”

He sighs petulantly. For the first time, Darcy notices a strange glint in his eyes—something almost manic.  That's not the only thing that's off, either; he looks altogether different from the last time she saw him, slightly unkempt and jittery. His eyes dart to and fro incessantly, and his fingers haven't stopped tapping since he walked into the room. His whole body vibrates with some unseen energy, so at contrast with the polished facade of his words. That scares Darcy more than anything else.

“I've been trying to contact you for months, Darce. This would've been so much easier if you would've just talked to me. Why didn't you talk to me?”

Darcy shrugs one shoulder and looks away, avoiding the question. "I'm here now, Ian. What did you want to say?"

Ian chuckles derisively. “Oh, Darcy. Sometimes you and Jane can be right idiots. Do you even know how many people are after her research? The answer is _a lot_. The power to access other worlds, and all that. "

She surges forward without thinking, baring her teeth aggressively. The zip ties pull on her wrists roughly, but she ignores the pain. "Ian, what have you done? If you hurt Jane, so help me—” He straightens up to his full height abruptly, staring down at her, and despite herself Darcy shrinks back a little.

Leaning back against the wall, he smiles at her sweetly. How he can act as if he hasn't kidnapped her and held her against her will, she has no idea. “It's alright; Jane is safe. I convinced them you had the information they needed. They won't touch a hair on her pretty little head.” He smiles, proud of himself for that. Darcy gets the feeling that he expects her to be proud of his smart thinking, too, but she can't bring herself to say anything.

Something is seriously wrong with him, to act as though they've just sat down for a nice chat. She half-expects him to offer her a cup of tea or something to eat, which is a ridiculous thought. “Who are you working with, Ian?”

He looks at her as though she's stupid. Like he’s already told her, somehow. “AIM, of course. C’mon, love, keep up.”

“AIM?” she sputters, incredulous. “Why would you work with them, Ian? I don't understand—”

He snarls, banging the wall with his fist. Little drops of sweat fly off his hands and splatter against the wall; he’s sweating profusely now. Darcy jumps at the sudden violence and falls silent, terrified at his unexpected outburst. She’s afraid to say anything—one moment he’s calm and collected and in the next loud and violent. In an agonizing moment of blind panic, she’s frozen, excruciatingly aware of her powerlessness. “You wouldn't answer my calls or texts, and you live in that stupid tower! I couldn't get to you, Darcy.” He looks down at her beseechingly. “I had to get to you, to remind you why you need me!”

It’s on the tip of Darcy’s tongue to retort that she doesn’t need him, has never needed him. Her inner voice—the one that stays calm and collected and sounds eerily like Natasha— stops her at the last moment, and she clenches her jaw tightly instead. Even with her head throbbing, her wrists aching, her jaw grinding, and her heart pounding, Darcy knows better.

She never would have expected that Ian could even consider collaborating with AIM, would _kidnap_ her, and it’s throwing her off. Even when he was cyber-stalking her, he didn't scare her like this. There was always a part of her that refused to take him seriously, remembering him as the harmless intern’s intern. He's dangerous now, that's clear. She's afraid of what he'll do when she can't appease him. With him acting so erratic, it’s bound to happen sooner rather than later.

During her training sessions with Natasha, the other woman consistently impressed upon Darcy that when her life was in danger, she had to be willing to do anything necessary to survive. Darcy blew it off at the time, secure in the power of her friends and the security of her panic button.

She understands now, though. There’s no reasoning with Ian, no convincing him that he's being irrational and should let her go. She needs to find another way. Blunt force isn't going to work right away, that much is obvious. Darcy’s improved a lot in her training, but there's no way she can take out a grown man while tied up.

First priority, then, is to get out of the zip ties. She'll just have to channel Nat and lie, trick, and sneak her way until she can change the odds. 

“I understand, Ian. I understand.” Darcy pauses, licking her chapped lips and forcing a swallow down her dry throat. She tries to ignore the way his eyes track the movement of her tongue, but can't keep the muscles in her back from clenching in distress. “What does AIM want from me? You know I'm not a science-y type, Ian! I don't even know what I could possibly tell them.” She allows her voice to rise hysterically at the end, using her very real fear to hide the lie.

He smiles at her condescendingly. “Oh, after the stunt you pulled on the men we sent to collect you, they wanted to kill you. They decided you weren't worth the investment, love.”

Ian’s casual attitude toward her death is almost as jarring as his words, and Darcy flinches badly. Her back hits the cold brick wall behind her, hard enough to bruise. Seeing her reaction, he clarifies lazily, “I couldn't let them kill you, of course. Not after all this time. So, we've got to hide out here for a while until I figure out what to do.” With a wink, he reassures, “Don't worry, love, I'll take care of you.”

Needless to say, Darcy is not at all reassured. She lies anyway. “Okay. I trust you to keep me safe. I know you care about me.” He ignores her, eyes glazed over and head cocked as if listening to something she can't hear.

“Ian?” His eyes snap back to hers, and she continues, “What's the long-term plan, here?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”

She waves a hand, indicating the room. “I mean, we can't stay in this tiny place in—wait, where are we anyway?”

Ian eyes her for a moment, glancing from her face to her tied wrists. Darcy keeps her expression as unassuming as possible, waiting him out, and he eventually answers, “We’re in Queens.”

_Thank Thor for small miracles_. _Queens is feasible_ , she thinks. Spots color her vision, and Darcy is momentarily afraid that she might pass out from relief. She takes a couple of deep breaths, but can still hardly hear Ian’s words over the sudden pounding of her ears.

“—and once things have settled down a bit we'll call Jane from London.”

“Jane?” Darcy prompts, not following Ian’s faulty logic.

He scoffs at her incredulously. “Well, that should be obvious. Seriously, Darcy, neither of us is a Nobel Prize-winning astrophysicist, are we? Of course we need Jane. It's the only way things’ll go back to the way they were.” Ian gestures wildly through the air to emphasize his assertions.

She nods. “Right, of course, but—” Darcy has no idea how to follow up on that statement in any way that makes actual sense, and feels a surge of gratitude when she's cut off by a shrill ringing in the other room.

Ian lurches away from the door abruptly, a nervous look washing across his face, and Darcy wonders if her gratitude for the interruption was premature. With an absent “Don't go anywhere”—really, Ian, _really_?—he heads into the other room. The door latches behind him with an echoing click.

Darcy eyes the door for a moment, wondering if this is some kind of trick. She breathes evenly for 15 seconds, completely focused on the murmured sounds of conversation in the other room. When Ian’s voice rises in distress, responding to something the person on the phone said, Darcy knows she has to move quickly.

As surreptitiously as possibly, Darcy eyes the walls, trying to figure out how Ian is monitoring her. She has to cast her eyes slowly around the room several times before she finds it; there, in one corner, sits a cheap camera. Easy enough to dodge, she guesses, now that she knows where it is. Without looking at the camera, Darcy keeps an ear out for Ian’s return and starts to turn her body strategically. 

_Time to get the hell out of here, Darce_.

 

* * *

 

 

-:- -:- -:-

 

By the time Bucky’s vision clears, ears still buzzing, he and Dodger are almost to the elevator. There’s a firm hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly enough to bruise. Dodger moves quickly, growling a warning. Bucky has never heard that sound from his dog before and reacts instinctively to the implied danger. The wild punch he throws is easily evaded, and his attacker—Bucky blinks, snapping back to reality.

“Bucky! Buck, stop.” Steve calls his name repeatedly, as if he’s been doing so for some time. Bucky couldn’t hear him before, but now Steve’s voice resonates down his spine.

He sinks a hand into the fur at the nape of Dodger’s neck and takes a second to collect himself. Stroking along the dog’s spine, Bucky soothes, “It’s alright, Dodge. Everythin’s fine.” Dodger’s growling subsides, but he continues to watch Steve warily. For his part, Steve ignores the dog. His sole concern is Bucky.

By contrast, Bucky’s priority is to calm himself and his dog. He takes a cautious step backward. Steve’s hand drops between them, still slightly outstretched. Slowly raising his eyes to meet his best friend’s gaze, Bucky mumbles, “I’m here, Steve.”

Steve exhales visibly in relief and turns to step back down the hall in the direction they came.

Bucky doesn’t follow. Instead, he turns in the opposite direction to stare at the gleaming elevator doors. Darcy is out there somewhere, missing. There’s a part of him—the part that after all these years is used to resolving things with violence—that balks at wasting any more time. His girl is in danger, perhaps badly hurt or worse, and Bucky _knows_ that he could lay waste to the city and find her, if necessary. Steve will urge him to work with the others to find her, he knows.  But Bucky has worked alone for so long that he’s unsure whether he can entrust her life to anyone other than himself.

Steve catches onto his hesitation and stops in the middle of the hallway. “C’mon, Buck,” he cajoles softly. 

Bucky doesn't move. “Gotta find ‘er, Stevie,” he stresses, unconsciously slipping back into his childhood nickname for his best friend. Tears well in his eyes, and he drags his gaze away from the elevator to look up at Steve. He croaks, voice quavering, “Steve, we gotta find Darcy.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder—this time Dodger doesn’t growl—and offers a poor attempt at a grin. He murmurs, “I know, Buck. We’ll find her and bring her home. But we can’t run off half-cocked with no information. The more we know, the quicker we can get her back safely.”

Bucky knows he’s right. After another moment of hesitation, Bucky nods and allows Steve to guide him back toward the conference room. Half-heartedly, he snarks, “Since when are you the one with common sense?”

Steve just offers him a half-grin and shrugs, but doesn’t answer. As they stride down the hallway, Dodger presses his nose lightly to the back of Bucky’s trembling hand and keeps it there, grounding his human to reality.

When they reach the conference room door, Natalia is waiting for them at the entrance. Despite a hissed warning from Steve, she steps into Bucky’s personal space and demands, “Are you a liability? Or are you going to help me find her?” Dodger shifts his weight into Bucky’s leg supportively but doesn’t verbalize his disapproval.

Steve tries to interject again, but Natalia cuts him off with a sharp slice of her hand through the air. “No, Steve. I need to know—” she faces Bucky again, glowering, “—I will find her, whatever it takes. Do you hear me? I will stop at nothing to bring Darcy home, and I have no time to babysit you.” Tears gather in her eyes and for once Bucky knows with certainty that she isn’t working an angle; her desperation is real, and it mirrors his own. Natalia rolls her shoulders back and glances away; when she looks back at him, the light sheen is gone. Staring intently at him, she presses, “Can I count on you?”

Bucky doesn’t blink. He curls his fingers into the fur at the back of Dodger’s neck to brace himself and ignores Steve’s concerned expression. With conviction, he replies, “Whatever it takes.”

Natalia stares him down for a long moment, weighing his words. For a moment, he fears that she might find him wanting. Instead, she nods gravely and slides back into the room.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky follows. _Whatever it takes_.

The others are still there, examining what appears to be security footage from a street somewhere in Manhattan. They pause as he and Steve enter the room, but no one says anything about his breakdown—not even Stark, who is always ready with a caustic gibe. Glancing around cautiously, Bucky takes in the worn faces and tired eyes.

For the first time, he realizes that these people worry about Darcy almost as much as he does. That thought should make him feel better, but it doesn’t; a pit sits heavily in his stomach, and he aches fiercely from missing her. Sensing a plummet in Bucky’s mood, Dodger whines softly and licks his hand, nudging him insistently.

Natalia throws him a sharp look at the sound. _Can I count on you?_ echoes through his head. Bucky takes a breath and reassures her with a nod. Then, patting Dodger on the head once to reassure him, Bucky moves all the way into the room.

Still no one speaks, so Bucky decides to bite the bullet and ask the question whose answer he dreads the most. “I need to know. Is it—” he stutters into the empty air, his throat clogging. “Was it—was it Hydra?” The words hang heavily for a moment, and nobody moves. Bucky really wants to ask, _is she in danger because of me?_ but he can’t force his lips to form the words. Everyone knows what he means, anyway.

Predictably, it’s Sam who dares to break the tension. “We don't know yet. Dr. Foster received a voicemail from Darcy with sounds of a fight, so she alerted us.” Seeing Bucky’s questioning glance about the room, Sam adds, “She’s pretty distressed…she blames herself for not getting to the voicemail right away.”

Waving his hands impatiently, Stark interjects, “Pepper is with her; we need to focus on Double D right now.” He places the metal object down on the table roughly and gestures at the screen. “As soon as I got the call, I had FRIDAY try to track Darcy’s panic button. It’s been disabled, which doesn’t make sense—” Frustrated, he cuts himself off. “That’s not the point. I had FRIDAY hack into every camera feed we could reach in the city, and we found this.”

The footage is grainy, but it clearly depicts a dark-haired woman fighting off at least three men. There's no denying that the woman is Darcy. His hand grips the conference table so tightly that the wood splinters and cracks as Bucky suppresses the urge to howl in rage. In response, Dodger presses heavily against his leg and whines softly. The sound gently reverberates down through Bucky’s body and centers him enough that he’s able to remove one hand from its death grip on the table to stroke along the dog’s back.

Glancing askance at the destroyed table, Sam decides to hustle things along. “Are we any closer to finding out who they work for?” Lightening the mood as only Sam can, he adds, “It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to punch a Nazi.”

Tony rolls his eyes but waves a hand to direct their attention back to the screen. Raising his voice slightly, he asks, “FRIDAY, have you gotten a hit on the facial recognition for the kidnappers yet?”

“Facial recognition has matched the three men, sir.” The AI pauses, and three dossiers fill a screen next to the first. “I am searching for possible connections to Hydra or other known terrorist groups now.”

Silence reigns in the room for a long moment, then FRIDAY continues, “There are no apparent connections between any of the three kidnappers and Hydra.” Bucky exhales in relief, but it’s short-lived. FRIDAY continues, “There are, however, multiple financial transactions linking them to AIM. It appears that these men are occasionally used by the organization to acquire…persons of interest.”

Steve breaks in, remembering, “A few months ago Darcy mentioned being worried that AIM might try to steal Dr. Foster’s research. Could this be related?”

Natalia disagrees. Shaking her head, she argues, “Tactically speaking, that makes no sense. Darcy and Jane have been separated for months. If AIM wanted Jane’s research, they could have kidnapped her in Belgium before she moved back to New York and into one of the most secure buildings on the planet.”

Bucky watches the screen showing the video footage for a moment, critically analyzing the men’s strategy. One by one the others stop and look at him, and eventually he spits, “Did you see how they boxed her in? They planned this. It was about _Darcy_.” Rage burns through his veins like acid. It sits on his tongue, and when he swallows it back—trying desperately to focus—it burns his throat. It slides down to sizzle hotly in his stomach, settling there.

Nodding slowly, Steve replies, “You’re right. This was clearly about Darcy. But maybe we should talk to Dr. Foster anyway, in case she has some information we might need. She knows Darcy’s duties and schedule better than anyone.” With a glance around the room, he adds, “I know she’s upset right now, but we desperately need any and all relevant information.”

Nobody disagrees, but no one moves. Fed up and impatient, Bucky growls, “The fuck are we doin’ up here, then, if she’s down in the labs?” Steve rolls his eyes and Tony laughs.

“You heard the Tin Man. What are we waiting for? Let’s go harass the good doctor.”

Before anyone can move, Stark’s AI interjects. “Apologies for the interruption, but Dr. Foster requests that all of you come to the lab immediately.”

Bucky looks at the ceiling in consternation, muscles coiling in anticipation of a fight. “Is there a security breach? Is Dr. Foster in danger?”

The AI hesitates for a moment—conferring with Jane, Bucky presumes—then answers, “There’s been a development in the disappearance of Miss Lewis, and Dr. Foster requires your immediate assistance in questioning a potentially-involved party.”

No words are necessary after that.

As they approach the lab, Bucky leaves Dodger in the hall. Steve throws him a sharp look, but Bucky refuses to acknowledge it. If coercion is needed to extract the information they need, it will serve everyone better if Bucky looks more like the Winter Soldier and less like a man with a therapy dog.

He steps into the lab, noting that it’s empty except for Dr. Foster and her assistant. Whatever Jane needs to tell them must be sensitive, if she asked Ms. Potts to leave. Jane’s a mess—she looks as though she’s been pulling at her hair for hours, and tears have left tracks down her face. She paces the length of the room, staring at her assistant—Dr. Walters—who sits awkwardly at one of the tables.

Despite her puffy eyes, Dr. Foster looks eerily reminiscent of a vengeful Valkyrie. Her eyes are hot with fury and desperation, and her glare is directed straight at her assistant. As soon as the Avengers and Bucky cross the threshold, Jane snarls at her assistant, “Tell them what they need to know.”

The whole room shifts, and Bucky’s vision is thrown into sharp relief as his priorities realign. In front of him sits a person who may be at least partially responsible for Darcy’s kidnapping. His mind empties at that thought, overwhelmed by the need to find Darcy and protect her—at any cost.

Natalia is clearly thinking along the same lines; she takes a menacing step forward, Bucky only half a pace behind. Dr. Walters shrinks back in her chair, terrified. She looks toward Jane in supplication, but the doctor just stares at her grimly. “Tell them everything, Allison.”

The woman falters, glancing from person to person in hope of a friendly face. She finds none. Tired of waiting, Natalia leans toward her and snarls, “ _Speak_.”

Dr. Walters hesitates further, flinching but refusing to speak. The reticence of the doctor infuriates Natalia, and her thin veneer of politeness falls away. In its wake is unchecked aggression, and she stalks even closer until there are only inches separating their faces. No one moves to rein her in. “Every second you waste is another moment that Darcy is left abducted and unprotected, and I will not allow that. _Do you understand me_?”

It still doesn't work; Dr. Walters’ mouth trembles and her eyes shift wildly in panic, but she remains silent. If the woman is as innocent as Dr. Foster claims, her continued silence makes little sense. At the moment, though, Bucky doesn’t care; he just wants her to tell them what they need to know. He shifts his weight forward predatorily, just enough to draw the woman’s attention. She stares up at him in undiluted terror and Bucky returns her gaze coldly, allowing his muscles to slip into the sinister demeanor of his assassin days.

It should feel like backsliding, he muses, to voluntarily pull from his nightmares and wrap himself in the Winter Soldier persona. It doesn’t, though. Instead, he feels more in touch with the Bucky Barnes from 75 years ago than he has in a long time— _you’re a protector, Buck_ , whispers the internal voice that sounds a lot like Steve. _That is who you are_.

Finally, the woman cracks. “I swear I didn’t know—I-I mean, I didn’t mean—I would never h-hurt—” she swallows, then continues, “I would never hurt Darcy. I love this job. I never meant to put her in danger!” She wails the last bit, sobbing openly. Neither Bucky nor Natalia give an inch. They care nothing for this woman or her ploys for sympathy, only about the information needed to get to their Darcy.

Steve and the others hover in the background, listening intently but not interfering. Vaguely, Bucky can hear Dr. Foster’s suppressed sobs—she’s trying hard to put a brave face on it, but in her own way she’s as devastated by Darcy’s abduction as he and Natalia. Even though Bucky never suspected that Jane had anything to do with Darcy’s kidnapping, something in his chest eases all the same at her obvious distress.

The assistant glances from his face to Natalia’s, then back. Seeing no sympathy, she wilts. “I was stupid. I was so stupid, and I had no idea.” Swallowing thickly, she admits, “I started dating someone a couple of months before I got the job with Dr. Foster.”

Jane pauses in her pacing, but doesn’t make eye contact. Dr. Walters continues, “I met him right around the time I decided to apply for the assistantship. It seemed serendipitous—he had worked with you before, in London, and he was so helpful during the application process.”

Like a nightmare he can’t escape, Bucky suddenly knows what’s coming. Behind him, he can hear Steve stiffen as he draws the same conclusions. Dr. Foster stops abruptly in her path, asking incredulously, “You’re dating Ian? That’s what this is about? All you said was that you might know something about Darcy’s kidnapping.”

With an absent note to fill Dr. Foster in later—Bucky remembers Darcy saying she hadn’t wanted to cause problems by telling Jane about Ian’s harassing behavior—Bucky leans forward and snarls. Banging his metal fist on the table deliberately, making the woman jump, he demands, “What did you tell him about her?”

Stark looks at Steve in question. At Steve’s grave nod, he walks toward the door, muttering, “I need to update the algorithm to track anyone matching Ian’s description. I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t know—I didn’t know that he was after her, I swear!” She sobs, terrified. “It wasn’t until Jane got the voicemail that I realized—”

Bucky can’t keep himself from growling in anger, despite knowing that she’ll be incoherent soon if he doesn’t stop terrorizing her. As always, Steve has his back. His best friend steps in to clasp a supportive hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Pitching his voice to a low, calming pitch, Steve prompts the woman, “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

She hiccups on a sob, takes a breath, and starts over. “I met Ian when I was finishing up my PhD. He was really sweet, and we bonded over our field of study—he was charming and perfect, and I really thought I had hit the jackpot.” Dr. Walters looks toward Jane, pleading, and Jane finally meets her eyes and nods.

“I believe you, Allison. But why didn’t you tell me you were dating him?”

Dr. Walters averts her eyes, admitting, “He told me he had…romantic history with Darcy. I didn’t want to jeopardize my job or my chances of fitting in around here, so I decided not to say anything about who I was dating.” She flips her hands, palms to the ceiling in supplication, and rushes to clarify, “I wasn’t trying to pull one over on anyone, I swear! But Darcy already didn’t seem to like my intrusion and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

At that, Jane’s eyes fill with tears again and she resumes her pacing. Steve looks at her in sympathy, then prompts Dr. Walters, “Darcy’s panic button was disabled so that we couldn’t find her. Did you give that information to Ian?”

At that, both Bucky and Natalia twitch. Bucky’s metal hand curls into a tight fist. Next to him, Natalia clearly reaches for the outside of her right thigh, where she has no doubt hidden one of her many knives.

“What? No! I mean—oh, shit.” Natalia surges forward, only to be snagged at the last moment by Sam. Murder flashes in her eyes, and Bucky isn’t sure who is more likely to be the victim: Dr. Walters, for putting her golubushka in danger, or Sam, for stopping her from getting to the doctor.

Looking at Natasha’s thunderous expression, Dr. Walters’ survival instincts kick in. She stutters quickly, “Ian told me about some of the crazy safety measures he and Darcy implemented in London to keep Dr. Foster and Dr. Selvig safe. He joked that things must be even tougher now that we were operating out of Avengers Tower. So I told him that we all had panic buttons specially designed by Stark.” 

Jane stops pacing and turns to look at her incredulously, and Dr. Walters defends herself heatedly. “I was just trying to reassure him that I would be safe, I swear! I didn’t know where Darcy or Jane kept their panic buttons, and I wouldn’t have told him that anyway.”

The blinding rage that’s been burning him from the inside out settles slightly, pushed down by Bucky’s dispassionate, tactical side. It simmers in his stomach, held at bay by the fact that they might finally be making headway. Clenching his teeth, Bucky grits out, “When was the last time you spoke to Ian?”

“Several days ago. He acted like he was still in London, then stopped returning my calls altogether. I haven’t talked to him since.” With a touch of bitterness, she adds, “He got what he wanted from me, I guess. I doubt he was ever planning on talking to me again.”

Bucky opens his mouth to continue questioning her, utterly unsympathetic to the dissolution of her relationship, when Stark rushes in and explodes, “I’ve got an update on Darcy’s location!”

 

* * *

 

-:- -:- -:-

 

Darcy curls her body toward the corner of the room, presenting her back to the camera. She moves too quickly as she rotates her torso, and the resulting nausea makes her twist and vomit unceremoniously all over the floor. _Definitely a concussion_ , she thinks. Ignoring the mess she’s made on the already-disgusting carpet and the sharp, acrid taste of bile in her mouth, Darcy wipes her face on one sleeve of her cardigan and listens hard. Either Ian doesn’t hear her retching or he doesn’t care, because she can still hear his tense phone conversation.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Darcy tries to ignore the putrid stink of vomit and the burn that lingers in her throat. More carefully this time, she finishes her turn away from the camera, thankfully avoiding any more urges to puke. She leans against the brick wall for just a second until the dizziness is gone and the black spots crowding her vision fade. Breathing through her mouth, Darcy hunches forward to hide the movement of her hands and legs as much as possible.

With a momentary prayer of gratitude to Frigga for the fact that she decided to wear sneakers when she got dressed this morning (or was it yesterday? She has no way of knowing how long she was unconscious), Darcy bends her knees and brings her feet in close to her body. Working quickly and quietly, Darcy unties her shoelaces. Using small movements, still hiding from the camera—just in case—Darcy loops one shoelace through the zip tie binding her hands. Then, she ties the shoelaces together. Darcy takes a moment to brace herself for the next step; with all the bruises and her pounding head, it isn’t going to be fun.

She doesn’t have long to dawdle, though. With a measured breath Darcy leans back, shifting her weight to her tailbone and lifting her feet off the ground. Moving her legs as though she’s riding a bicycle, Darcy works the shoelaces aggressively back and forth across the zip tie. After enough friction, the zip tie snaps completely. She’s free.

Her heart pounds, and Darcy can’t decide whether the anticipation fluttering in her chest stems from terror or a sense of accomplishment. Either way, she needs to set herself up for the moment Ian walks back through that door; the element of surprise is the only advantage she has in the situation.

Darcy has the sudden fear that Ian is not alone in the apartment, despite his revelation that he split away from the AIM cell he was working for. She dismisses the thought immediately, less from optimism than practicality. Darcy has to take advantage of this opportunity either way, so it does no good to worry.

With that depressing thought, Darcy takes a long look around the room on the off-chance there might be something she can use as a weapon. It doesn’t take long—there’s absolutely nothing in the room, not even a cot for her to sleep on. Either Ian doesn’t plan on them staying overnight, or he’s just not thinking things through. Not for the first time, Darcy wonders what the hell happened to the sweet—if slightly pretentious—intern she knew in London. She would have sworn he was nothing like this, wasn't capable of stalking or kidnapping her.

Ian’s voice rises in anger, loud even from the other room, and there’s a loud crash as a heavy object hits the wall. Darcy shakes off her compassionate thoughts, Natasha’s voice ringing in her ears— _do not give them anything they can use against you, milaya_. Stumbling to her feet, Darcy shakes off the perpetual dizziness and moves to the left side of the door, turning her back to the wall and facing the room. If she places herself just right, she can get in a solid hit before he even sees her coming. Glancing at her hands, puffy and bruised from the last fight, Darcy knows she’ll have to change her tactics. Even punching a marshmallow would be excruciating at this point. 

Unfortunately, Darcy doesn’t have long to revise her plan of action. She can tell when Ian ends his conversation, because the yelling stops abruptly and there’s a second, smaller crash against the other side of the wall at her back. His cell phone, she guesses. Ian’s footsteps stomp closer, and Darcy bends her knees slightly and braces herself. She forces the nausea down and pushes aside the sudden concern that Ian will slam the door open when he enters, smashing her in the side. It’s too late to move, now.

She gets lucky. When Ian opens the door, he does it carelessly but without much force. He steps all the way into the room before noticing that she’s no longer tied up on the floor, and he pauses in the act of pushing the door closed behind him.

Darcy strikes. Pivoting on her left foot, she rotates her hips around and delivers a kick to the outside of his left thigh. She’s off-center with the hit, but Ian wasn’t expecting an attack and his leg buckles slightly anyway. Reflexively, he lets go of the door knob, and the door bangs open. Darcy’s head spins worryingly as she finishes the motion, and she operates purely on instinct. Her palm lashes out toward his face, and she strikes his cheek hard at the same time as her fingernails curve forward and gouge at his eye.

Ian howls and curses, bringing one hand up to his eye on reflex as the other reaches out to hit her in retaliation. Nat’s training sessions kick in, and Darcy slips her head to the right, just enough to dodge his sloppy strike. At the same time, Darcy delivers a powerful punch straight to his gut. Excruciating pain rockets up her arm—she’s probably broken at least one knuckle.

Darcy pours everything she has into thrusting her right elbow directly into Ian’s face. There’s a sharp crack, and Darcy knows that she’s made a solid hit. She feels a vicious stab of satisfaction at the blood that cascades from his nose, drenching his shirt and the wall next to him as he staggers into the door frame.

Taking advantage of his surprise, Darcy grips him by the shirt and uses her momentum to drag him to one side, out of the doorway and away from her escape route. She throws one last punch to his chest, but instead of driving forward into him she uses the force of it to push herself back. Without any further hesitation, she turns and dashes through the door.

Ian howls in rage and pain from the room she just left and she knows he won't be far behind her. She enters a small living space, darting past a flimsy table covered with junk on her way to the apartment’s front door. At the last second, she snaps a hand out and _heaves_ , sending the table crashing to the floor and scattering the items in a thousand directions behind her.

She doesn't pause or look back to see the damage she's done, just continues headlong to the staircase. Afraid to stop, she sprints too quickly down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. Darcy takes one landing particularly fast and slams into the wall as she turns, knocking the breath out of her lungs. She pushes off the wall with her right arm and forces herself to keep running, leaving a streak of blood in her wake.

After what feels like an eternity, Darcy is out on the street. She can't tell if she hears the pounding of feet behind her or if that is just the sound of her own heartbeat, and she can't afford to take the time to check. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the time to check her surroundings to get her bearings either.

_Queens_ , Ian had said. Queens is a fucking huge borough, and Darcy doesn't know what to do if she can't find her way back to Manhattan. She's too scared to stop and ask for help, unsure of how much time she has before Ian catches up to her. Making a split-second decision, Darcy heads for the more populated cross-street. If she can just find a subway, or _something_ , maybe she can disappear.

As she approaches the intersection, Darcy is surprised to find that she recognizes it: Broadway and Roosevelt. The son of a bitch had put them right by the Jackson Heights subway station, probably for its proximity to LaGuardia Airport. Without wasting any more time, she heads below ground. If her fuzzy brain is calculating correctly, she can take the 7 straight to Grand Central, which will dump her out within walking distance of the tower.

As she hits the lower level, Darcy panics for a long second. Ian took her purse and her phone, with all her money. She can't afford to buy a metrocard, not even for just one trip. Darcy pats her pockets frantically, just in case. She lets out a relieved curse when she realizes that she had slid her metrocard into her back pocket sometime during her wandering throughout Manhattan.

The telltale rattle of the subway tracks echoes through the station, and Darcy rushes through the turnstiles to make it onto the train in time. She parks herself in one corner of an almost-empty car, but doesn't look up until the doors close again. A quick glance at the platform yields no sign of Ian, but Darcy doesn't relax. She spends the entire 20-minute subway ride alternating between terror gripping her so tightly she thinks it might crack her spine and an exhaustion so bone-deep that Darcy wonders if she's hallucinating her entire escape.

The subway car sways back and forth throughout the trip, speeding and slowing intermittently as the train makes its stops. The rhythm lulls her concussed brain into a semi-conscious state, and she sways with the movement of the train. A couple of the stops are sudden enough that she snaps back into awareness, almost pitching forward onto her face. The few other occupants of the car look at her askance, but no one offers her any help. Catching her reflection in the window, Darcy’s not surprised—she looks like death.

Fuzzily, she wonders what she looks like to them—a woman concussed and dizzy, completely bruised and with blood on her sleeve. Cognizant of the dangers of drawing too much attention, she huddles herself further into the corner, drawing the bloody sleeve close to her body and concealing it with the other arm. A distant panic settles into her bones for the rest of the ride, one thought penetrating the fog of her brain and preempting all else: _get to the tower. No delays_.

Finally, the stop at Grand Central is announced, and Darcy staggers out of the car. With heavy feet and drooping eyes, Darcy stumbles to the city’s surface, weaving her way through the throngs of people. As she climbs the various staircases in Grand Central, Darcy has to stop a couple of times to lean against the wall. She doesn’t let herself linger, though, hyper-aware of the danger that follows in her wake.

Pushing off the last staircase, Darcy stumbles out onto the busy streets of midtown Manhattan, heading toward the tower on autopilot. The wind whips past her as she trudges along, and she shudders violently. All of her bruises ache terribly, and Darcy’s head throbs in time with her heartbeat. At one point, her hearing fades out in one ear and is replaced by a distant ringing. Her head swims and her equilibrium falters as spots enter her vision.

She ignores all of it as best as she can and focuses all her efforts on getting to the tower as soon as possible. Between the concussion and the rest of her injuries, Darcy doubts she could fight off a two-year-old at this point, much less an enraged Ian. She has to get to the Avengers. Darcy may have saved herself, but she knows her friends will protect her from whatever comes next. She imagines the hell that Natasha will rain down on AIM for taking her beloved golubushka and chuckles to herself soundlessly, eyes filling with tears. Wiping them away roughly, she stumbles on.

_Just get to the tower, Darce_ , she mumbles to herself repeatedly. It becomes a mantra. _Just get to the tower and everything will be fine. Get to the tower. Get to the tower._

Finally—mercifully—the tower comes into view. Darcy has never been more grateful to see Stark’s eyesore of a building, and tears sting her eyes yet again. They cling to her eyelashes but don’t fall, and Darcy wraps one arm around her ribs. Gripping tightly, she hurries her pace toward the gleaming metallic doors. Darcy vaguely wonders if this is what marathon runners feel like when the finish line is in sight, then hopes that they don’t have to deal with the kind of pain she’s in right now.

At last, she crosses the threshold. A part of her wants to crash to her knees just inside the lobby, but Darcy forces herself to keep moving. If she can get to the secure elevator, then she’ll be safe. FRIDAY will call Natasha, and Nat will eviscerate anyone who comes too close. Darcy doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as she pushes forward, and ignores the concerned questions of the other people in the lobby. They’re all blurs, anyway, and she’s on a mission. Get to Nat.

She almost makes it. She’s so close that she can make out the call button for the elevator that goes all the way up to the Avengers’ apartments. So, of course that’s when it all falls apart.

There’s a prickle at the back of her neck, and an ominous feeling of danger sweeps over her. Goosebumps raise on her skin, and her hearing clears enough that Darcy can hear shouting in the lobby behind her. She knows that voice. Darcy stops and closes her eyes, anguished. A tear slips free and cuts a path down her cheek and to her chin. She really doesn’t want to look behind her; freedom is _right there_ , beckoning from the elevator, and she was so close to making it. Swallowing thickly, she turns—

And there’s Ian, waving a gun wildly. The lobby erupts into a panic, and people sprint this way and that. The noise is deafening but he ignores everyone else, eyes fixed on Darcy’s stationary figure. With a mocking wave of the gun, he mouths, _don’t move_. Darcy stays where she is, not wanting to endanger innocent lives.

_Can’t a girl catch a fucking break?_

 

* * *

 

-:- -:- -:-

 

Bucky, Steve, and Natalia follow Stark into the hallway, while Sam stays behind to keep an eye on Dr. Foster and Dr. Walters. Dodger immediately comes to Bucky's side, and he grips tightly onto the dog's fur for support.

Stark pulls something up on the tablet he holds in his hands and orders, “Repeat what you just told me, FRIDAY.”

“An injured woman matching Miss Lewis’s description entered the Roosevelt Avenue-Jackson Heights subway station approximately twenty minutes ago, Sir.”

“Injured? What do you—”

“In Queens? Are you sure it’s—”

“If my fucking AI says it’s Darcy, then it’s definitely—”

Steve cuts them all off, ordering, “FRIDAY, contact the local NYPD nearest to the subway station and get them over there. If Darcy is injured, she may not have made it far.” Pointing at Natalia, he commands, “Get the jet prepped and ready with whatever we’ll need. We need to be ready to move immediately.” She nods sharply and walks a few steps away, already pulling out her phone to dial.

Turning to Stark and gesturing at his tablet, Steve asks, “Can you pull up the subway map on that thing? We need to figure out all the directions she could have gone and form a plan of action.” For once without any snark about Steve’s bossiness, Stark does what he says immediately.

Steve and Bucky huddle around the tablet and the three of them examine the map. “If she was thinking straight,” Bucky says, “she’d have gotten on a train headed to Manhattan. She knows that she’ll be safe if she can get to the tower.” Steve nods, and Tony zooms in on that area of the map.

“Sir—”

“Not now, FRIDAY. Rogers, if Barnes is right and she’s headed for the tower, she would have taken the 7 towards Manhattan. We can place police officers _here_ and _here_ —”

“Sir, I really must insist—”

“Damn it, not now, FRIDAY.”

Natalia pauses her phone call, looking over at them in consternation. The screen on the tablet in Tony’s hand flickers and the map of New York is replaced with another image, which shows—is that video footage of the tower’s ground floor?

FRIDAY interjects insistently, “Sir, there appears to be a situation involving a gunman in the lobby.”

Stark hands the tablet to Steve and pulls out his phone, saying something about SI security, but Bucky can’t hear him. There, in one corner of the grainy footage with her hands outstretched toward the man waving the gun, is a familiar figure. “ _Darcy_ ,” he breathes in anguish. He takes off down the hall at a sprint, not stopping at Steve’s desperate call. Natalia is already one step ahead of him, as always.

_Please_ , Bucky prays fervently. _Please don’t let us be too late_.

 

* * *

 

-:- -:- -:-

 

His eyes wild, Ian shouts something viciously at Darcy. He gestures with the gun, but Darcy just stands there stupidly. Her pounding heart sounds deafening in her ears and her vision fades in and out, replaced by stars, and she’s just _so tired_.

She wobbles slightly, but snaps back to awareness when Ian takes a menacing step forward and raises the gun to point it at her. There’s movement in her peripheral vision, but Darcy is too preoccupied by the gun in her face to turn and look. 

Internally, Darcy rails against the cruelty of the world. She can’t decide if she wants to laugh or cry at the fact that she made it all the way to the tower just to die here on the marble floor of Avengers Tower, so close to the people she loves. _Cry_ , she thinks in despair. _I definitely want to cry_.

In a flash of realization, Darcy knows with one hundred percent certainty that Ian is going to shoot her. There’s no other outcome to the situation, not for him, but Darcy _really_ doesn’t want to die. She’s a fighter, after all.

So, when Ian squeezes the trigger, Darcy drops to her knees in one last-ditch effort, pinning her survival on the unlikely chance Ian will be unable to hit a moving target.

Her knees crack painfully against the marble of the lobby floor as she falls, but Darcy keeps her eyes on Ian. If she dies, at least she will do so unbowed.

But in the end, all she sees is the flash of a muzzle and a spray of blood across the pristine tile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I imply the trouble was over? Whoops.
> 
> Cheers to the people who predicted that Darcy would rescue herself! ;) 
> 
> Speaking of which, using shoelaces to get out of a zip tie is a real technique and is valuable to know! [Here’s a video that shows you how.](https://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com/post/159244507815/doctorbutler-hello-i-am-the-mad-hatter)
> 
> ALSO ALSO ALSO, [Nemie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemhaine42/pseuds/Nemhaine42) created the most beautiful piece of art for this fic, featuring Bucky, Darcy, Dodger, and good morning kisses. Check it out [here](https://nemhaine42.tumblr.com/post/159979607654/for-bloomsoftly-and-her-fantastic-story-trade) (you won’t be disappointed, promise!).
> 
> Last thing: my muse has been super finicky recently, so I started taking prompts on Tumblr. If you have a short ficlet idea you'd like me to write (Darcy-centric only, please) [you can submit it here](https://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com/ask).


	10. A Tune Without Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So the chapter count has gone up again—hopefully this is the last revision. 14 chapters in total, with a smutty epilogue (which will be a sequel, so that the main story can retain its rating and it’s easier to skip for people who aren’t interested in that). But without further ado: here, have a chapter. :)
> 
> A trillion and one thanks to [Dresupi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dresupi/pseuds/Dresupi) and [Wino](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wino/pseuds/Wino) for reading over this for me. They’re both amazing authors and you should check them out. :D
> 
> **TW** : violence (from Bucky’s POV) and the beginnings of a panic attack
> 
> I’d really love to know what you think!

The sprint to the elevator seems to take forever and yet no time at all. Between one breath and the next, Bucky has caught up to Natalia and together they skid into the open elevator. That breath, though, takes a lifetime.

Natalia takes charge. “FRIDAY, get us to the mezzanine as quickly as possible.” Turning to Bucky, she checks, “You don’t have a gun on you, do you?” 

Time slows as Bucky shakes his head. He's not sure how she knows that, but isn't truly surprised either. He’s been attempting to shed the cloak of paranoia and hypervigilance that's followed him ever since World War II, with mixed results. Dodger makes it easier.

But right now, a small part of him—the tiny abyss that reeks of fear and pain—wonders if his attempt to move forward is going to cost him everything. Bucky doesn’t have a weapon; he’s not the Winter Soldier. Dodger is upstairs; without him, Bucky isn't the man he’s trying to become. But none of that matters right now.

He doesn't have a gun, Dodger is upstairs, and Darcy is in the lobby.

_Darcy is in the lobby_.

Natalia pulls a Glock 26 out of her thigh holster and holds it between them, flat in her palm. “One of us needs to provide cover from the mezzanine. The other needs to get to Darcy,” she says, as Bucky stares at the gun. She waits impatiently, watching him expectantly. He doesn’t understand why she’s giving him the choice.

Time speeds back up, and something clicks into place. “Darcy,” he responds without hesitation. Swallowing thickly, he clarifies, “I’ll get Darcy.” The answer will always be Darcy.

She eyes him as they hurtle toward the mezzanine. Bucky wants to fidget impatiently, but his sniper training keeps him still. Slowly, Natalia retracts the hand with the weapon. She nods once, sharply, then turns to face the elevator doors.

With an innocuous chime that sounds overly chipper and loud for such a tense situation, the doors open to the mezzanine. Bucky doesn't need to look at Natalia to know that her face is a blank mask, but he checks anyway. She doesn't look at him as she makes her way into position, only glancing down to check her ammo. They both know she'll only need one shot.

The doors slide shut again. Bucky’s stomach flies to his throat, an uncomfortable reminder that FRIDAY is propelling the elevator to the ground floor at neck-breaking speed.

For all its velocity, the elevator ride seems to take forever. Bucky catches his reflection in the gleaming metal of the elevator walls as he waits. Until this very moment, Bucky had not realized how much progress he’s made in the last several weeks. He only sees it now because the expression staring back at him—his ‘murder face,’ according to Sam—is almost unrecognizable.

There's no time to think of that now. Bucky averts his eyes and inhales a calming breath. _Darcy_ , his brain reminds him. _This is all for Darcy_. He shifts his body weight into a runner’s stance.

When the doors slide open, he's ready.

Before he even clears the elevator bay, Darcy drops to her knees. Bucky watches in horror as she falls, too far away to reach her.

Two gunshots resound through the still air, but he’s only halfway there. He reaches, anyway, battling against gravity.

All sound in the lobby rushes away, replaced by the pounding of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears. Bucky’s vision narrows, and all he can see is Darcy. Her hair shines in the evening light, forming a halo. It contrasts sharply with the gleaming floor.

He’s two paces away when he spots the blood. It seeps from below her, darkening her hair and creeping like death across the tiles.

And then he’s there, pulling her out of the pool of her own blood. His knees soak themselves in it, sticky and warm, but he ignores it all. He pulls her close, cradling her to his body and shielding her from further damage. He can barely pull his eyes away from her, but a quick glance confirms his initial instinct: Ian is dead.

Turning back to Darcy, Bucky frantically pushes her hair out of her face. “Darcy,” he urges, “Darcy, are you okay?” She doesn’t respond, unconscious. Her head lolls against his shoulder as he hunts for the gunshot wound. As his hands slide along her left arm, his fingers come away wet and red. Bucky sighs in relief; it’s just a graze. Clamping his fingers over the wound and cradling Darcy protectively against his chest, Bucky smoothly rises to his feet. He turns, coming face to face with Natalia.

She has eyes only for Darcy, cataloging every bump and bruise and minor cut. Her eyes narrow when she sees the blood covering Darcy’s arm and dripping from her hair. “It’s superficial,” Bucky lets her know, before she can ask. “Just a graze.”

Natalia inclines her head slightly, but follows him to the elevator all the same. The doors slide open on their approach, and Bucky orders, “Take us to medical, FRIDAY.”

The AI almost sounds offended. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes. A medical team is en route to meet you.”

They’re already waiting when the elevator opens again, ready with a gurney. Bucky gingerly lowers Darcy onto it, carefully releasing the strands of Darcy’s hair that have gotten caught in his prosthetic arm. He steps back, and they whisk her away. Bucky and Natalia follow, keeping pace easily, until they reach a restricted area.

“You can’t come in,” one of the nurses insists, harried. “But we will keep you updated on Miss Lewis’ status, if you like.”

Then the hallway empties, silence following in the wake of their exit.

Bucky and Natalia share a guarded look, then head for the waiting area. There’s nothing else to do but wait.

 

* * *

 

Someone is crying.

Great, gasping breaths. The kind that shake the whole body. They cry out, “Please—please, don’t take me back there… _please_.”

Darcy wonders, _why doesn’t anyone help them_? She would go to them, to help, but she can’t move. She can’t open her eyes.

A hiccuping, desperate breath shudders and echoes across space, and she realizes, _Oh. It was me. I am the one._

The shuddering breaths come faster now, hyperventilating. They reverberate across her eardrums until she can’t hear anything but her own panic, but still she can’t stop.

A cool touch sweeps across her brow, and a voice rumbles, “You’re okay. I’ve got you, doll. I won’t let you go.” Her body is shifted, pressed close to something that smells like winter and leather. Darcy relaxes, breathing in the smell. It seems so familiar, tantalizing her with the imprint of a fond memory.

_I’ve got you_. She knows that voice…

Darkness reaches for her again, and she goes willingly into its embrace. She’s safe.

 

* * *

 

Jane’s worried face is the first thing Darcy sees.

It hovers over her for a moment, blurry and indistinct, blocking out the light. But she knows that frazzled head of hair anywhere. With a groan, she reaches for her best friend, only to stop at a sharp pinch in her hand. “Jane.”

Luckily, Jane comes to her. “Oh, thank God,” she sobs, gripping Darcy’s hand, “I’ve been so worried about you, Darce.”

Weakly, Darcy pats the bed beside her. She needs cuddle time with her best friend, and the quaver in Jane’s voice hints that she feels the same. And she’s right. Jane doesn’t hesitate in toeing off her shoes and gingerly clambering up onto the bed. She snuggles up to Darcy’s side, coaxing Darcy’s head to her shoulder.

In the warmth of her best friend’s embrace, Darcy lets go. She sobs as quietly as she can, in great shuddering gasps that shake her whole body. Jane holds her, smoothing a hand over her hair and muttering soothing nonsense into her ear.

After a while there are no more tears to shed. Some time after that, Darcy’s breathing evens out and she pulls away. With a watery chuckle, she apologizes, “I’m sorry, Janie. I got snot all over you.”

Jane waves a hand at her and grabs a wad of tissues from the side table. Handing some to Darcy, she wipes ineffectually at her plaid shirt. “Eh, who cares. It’s not like I don’t have a million more of these.” With a tremulous smile, she drops the dirty tissues on the table and brings Darcy’s head back to her tiny shoulder. “I was so worried about you, Darce.”

Darcy’s hand finds Jane’s and laces their fingers together. She squeezes. They lie there together for a long time, content to reassure themselves through touch.

Eventually, Darcy breaks the silence. “I can’t tell you how many times I thought of the last words I said to you. I know I left a voicemail, but I’m so sorry, Jane—”

Jane squeezes her hand tightly. “No, Darce, I wasn’t giving you the care you deserved. And the whole time you were gone I agonized over it—” she breaks off, choking on suppressed tears.

They cling to each other tightly. “I guess we’ll both just count it as an apology and move on,” Darcy jokes, at a loss for what else to say. More seriously, she adds, “I love you, Jane.”

Jane reaches up to push Darcy’s hair back from her face. “I love you too, Darce.”

 

* * *

 

Darcy doesn’t know what to expect from Natasha’s visit. Will she critique Darcy’s self-defense, speaking from her position as her trainer? Probably not. She’ll probably be proud. At least, that's what Darcy hopes.

But when Nat shows up with tears in her eyes, Darcy’s surprised. Ashamed, she kicks herself mentally. Natasha is so good at enhancing her own badass reputation that sometimes even Darcy forgets that she’s a real, live human being with emotions and feelings. Shaking it off, Darcy pats the spot on the bed recently vacated by Jane. 

Nat slides into place, and for the second time that day Darcy gets to snuggle with one of her best friends. As it turns out, the Black Widow is a master cuddler.  And as soon as Darcy gets another dose of painkillers, she tells her so. Nat just chuckles and draws Darcy in closer.

Pressing a soft kiss to the top of Darcy’s head, Nat murmurs, “You did so well, milaya. I saw the footage of the fight. And to rescue yourself, too,” Nat clicks her tongue in mock indignation, “one might almost think that the Avengers have become unnecessary around here.”

Darcy snorts in sleepy derision. “Yeah, that’s not likely. Thanks for the compliment, though,” she yawns.

Sleep is pulling her under, but she still hears Nat whisper into her hair, “I’m teaching you knives, next.”

She falls asleep with a smile on her face. When she wakes, Nat is still there, and Darcy has the sneaking suspicion that her friend didn’t move a single muscle the entire time.

 

* * *

 

The next time Darcy wakes up, Bucky is there. Her stomach clenches painfully at the sight of him, and she eyes him warily. “Natasha said you brought me to medical, after—after I was shot. And that you were racing to protect me.” A lump seizes her throat, but she works around it. “Thanks—uhh, thanks for that.”

He looks at her with soft, tired eyes, and Darcy wants to scream at him. He looks good, if exhausted. His hair hangs in his face slightly, accentuating the dark bruises under his eyes. He looks every inch the devoted, worried boyfriend, and—she can’t handle that look, not when she’s borderline high on painkillers and overly-emotional. He can just take those—those puppy eyes and shove it, she wants to tell him. But she doesn’t, because only evil people kick puppies. And she may be hurt and angry, but she’s not evil. _You quit on me_ , she wants to say. She bites her tongue instead.

Bucky eyes her in concern. Coming to some kind of decision, he tentatively reaches for her hand. Without thinking, she pulls it out of range. Something that looks suspiciously like hurt flickers across his face, but Darcy can’t think on that. _I’m sorry_ flickers across her eyelids, on repeat. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ —

A wet tongue swipes across her hand, and she flinches. There’s a black lab at the side of her bed, staring up at her with a set of puppy eyes that puts Bucky’s to shame. “Wha—?”

“That’s Dodger. He’s my—well, he’s my therapy dog. For my PTSD.” A distant corner of Darcy's brain registers the pride in Bucky’s voice and bombards her with domestic fantasies of how cute Bucky and Dodger must be, how adorable—she pushes that train of thought away. He got a dog. After everything, he got a therapy dog. But why? She doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense.

_You quit on me_ , she thinks again, and this time she says it out loud. “You quit on me,” she accuses. It comes out harsh and altogether louder than she intends. Bucky stares at her, flabbergasted. “Why are you here? You left me with nothing but an ‘I can’t do this’ and a single, stupid text with only two words, and if you think you can just waltz back into my life because I-I was kidnapped and injured—” her lungs spasm, sending her into a fierce coughing fit.

Bucky’s there with water. Darcy sips angrily. She tries to set him on fire with the force of her glare, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that she can’t even hold her cup by herself. Her hands shake too much, sloshing the water everywhere, and Bucky has to hold it for her.

He waits for her to finish drinking. Setting the cup on the little table next to the hospital bed, he asks, “What do you mean, text?”

With a vicious growl, Darcy spits, “What do you mean, what text? The only text you sent—the very next day. The only time you contacted me after the incident, for Thor’s sake. Or are you texting so many women that you can’t even keep us straight anymore?” She knows it’s not that, but weeks of pain and anger come lashing out without her permission.

Ignoring the last comment completely, Bucky says in confusion, “But I never sent you a text, Darcy.”

She surges forward, reaching for her cellphone on the side table. Her head throbs in warning, and she jerks to a stop. Hands out to placate her, Bucky implores, “No, please, don’t move. Darce, if you say you got a text, I believe you. What did it say?”

He must be an idiot. Condescendingly—staring at him as though he’s lost his mind—she states, “It said _I’m sorry_. That’s it. No explanation, no ‘ _it’s not you it’s me_ ,’ not even a cliched ‘ _I’m sorry, I’m just too dangerous_.’ Just two words.”

Clenching his eyes shut tightly, Bucky mutters, “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Look, I know you’re probably not going to believe this,” he chuckles self-deprecatingly, “and why would you? But I didn’t meant to send that text.”

He’s right; she doesn’t believe it. But—”Wait, are you saying you didn’t mean to contact me at all? That’s even worse, Bucky. I can’t believe—”

Frantically, he opens his eyes and cuts her off. “No, it wasn’t like that at all. Please, listen—”

But it’s too late. Her heart starts to race, and the beeping on the monitor increases steadily. Her breaths come faster, which in turn makes Darcy start to panic. The harsh sound of her rapid breathing is too similar to the moments after she was shot, and she starts to spiral into the memories.

To his credit, Bucky stops talking immediately. He leans forward. Caressing her cheek, he instructs, “Breathe, Darcy. You’re safe. You’re in medical. I’m here, and Jane is right outside, and you’re safe. C’mon, doll, take a deep breath in for me.” She does so, and the smell of him lingers in her nostrils. It’s the smell she’s always associated with comfort and safety, and her muscles begin to relax. Bucky croons at her, walking her through a couple more deep, stabilizing breaths.

With one final glance to make sure she’s breathing steadily and not on the verge of a panic attack, Bucky withdraws his hand. “I’ll go get Jane.” And then he’s gone.

Darcy’s too busy focusing on her breathing to pay attention to the way the warmth from his fingers lingers on her cheek. And if she catches herself touching the spot where his calluses rasped against her skin, she’ll take that secret to her grave.

 

* * *

 

She’s almost expecting Steve’s visit.

He also looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days. Even so, he musters up a genuinely happy smile for her and squeezes her hand affectionately when he sits down in the chair next to her bed. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Darce. You had us real worried, you know.”

“I was a little worried, too,” she tries to joke. It falls flat; the horror is too fresh in their memories. All the might-have-beens and almost-was.

They sit comfortably for hours, sometimes silent and sometimes chatting lightly, before Steve broaches the subject she knows has been on his mind.

He opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it. And repeats the movement.

Taking pity on him, Darcy prompts, “Bucky?”

Offering her a relieved grin, Steve confirms, “Bucky. He’s given me permission to tell you everything, you know. He thought you might find it more believable coming from me, that you would know I wouldn’t lie to you.” He looks at her in question, and she gives a tiny nod.

He tells her everything.

 

* * *

 

Despite her best efforts, Darcy can’t stop thinking about Steve’s words. And everyone who comes by to visit seems intent on dropping not-so-subtle hints about Bucky.

“You know, I’m pretty sure he never would have thought to get Dodger if you hadn’t suggested it,” Sam says out of the blue when he brings her breakfast one morning—she's at home now, but still tires easily. “Now, I don’t see Bucky go anywhere without him. He’s doing so much better now that he has Dodge, and I think you’re the one to thank.” Darcy steals Sam’s coffee in retaliation for bringing it up, and he doesn’t mention it again.

“You should have seen him when he and Natasha were interrogating Allison,” Jane’s face falls briefly as she mentions the other doctor—she’s still disappointed and furious about Allison’s involvement in Darcy’s abduction—but she soldiers on. “It was kind of hot, actually. I bet FRIDAY could pull up the video if you want to see.” She fans herself dramatically, dodging Darcy’s swipe and cackling madly the whole time. When Darcy changes the subject, though, she lets it drop.

Natasha’s input is the shortest and most impactful, if only because Darcy always takes the other woman’s opinions to heart. She’s an excellent judge of character. “I know you don’t particularly want to talk about this, golubushka, so I’m only going to say it once.” She pauses until Darcy makes eye contact.

Holding her gaze, Natasha lets her know, “When we found out you were in the lobby, James’ only thought was of you.” Darcy’s eyes start to burn, and she fights the urge to turn away. Nat continues, “I gave him the choice of providing cover or going to protect you. He didn’t hesitate, milaya. I know that you don’t trust him not to walk away, but—the man who was in that elevator with me? You can trust him with everything.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say to that, because Natasha’s right—Darcy doesn’t trust Bucky not to walk away. Even after she found out that he didn’t mean to send the text, or that he rushed to her aid when she needed him the most—she’s still having a hard time. But, still. She can’t stop thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Darcy finds Bucky in the common room kitchen. She’s been looking for him everywhere, and kicks herself for not thinking of here. Now that he isn’t hiding from her anymore, she should have known that he might be here.

Here, baking something that smells like apples and cinnamon and heaven. With Dodger at his side, as always. The dog greets her with a light whine, tail swishing audibly back and forth along the tile. Bucky straightens from putting something in the oven.

He eyes her cautiously. “Hey, Darce. Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be using the kitchen. I can, uh,—” he gestures toward the doorway and takes a step away from her.

Without thinking, she throws out her injured arm and pleads, “No, wait!” At her wince, he stops immediately and grimaces in concern. Ignoring the pain, she clarifies, “I was actually looking for you.”

That makes him shift his weight. Bucky ducks his head and lets his hair fall forward slightly. “Yeah?” he asks softly.

Darcy sighs and leans against a counter. “Yeah.” Deciding to rip the band-aid off, she informs him, “I spoke to Steve.”

He mimics her posture, leaning against the refrigerator on the other side of the kitchen. She imagines they both look like idiots, trying to play it cool when both of them are anything but. “Ah. And?”

She hums. “I guess—well, I’m willing to say that perhaps not everything was what I thought it was. At least, in the whole I’m-no-good-so-I’m-leaving-you kind of way.” Her stomach flutters with anxiety, and any further words die in her lungs.

Bucky shifts forward slightly, moving away from the refrigerator and standing upright. “It was never that.” At her skeptical look, he acquiesces, “Well, it wasn’t that after about five minutes or so, when I was done panicking.” With a frustrated rake of his hand through his hair, he adds earnestly, “And if you talked to Steve, you know that. I was—well, I was avoiding you because I was afraid.”

She opens her mouth to tell him that’s exactly what she’s worried about, but he forestalls her with a slice of his hand through the air. “No, not like that. I was afraid that—that you’d had enough. That my issues were too much for you.” He glances away and confesses, “Those weeks that we were apart, I was trying to get better. No, to be better.” Making eye contact again, he holds out his hands, pleading with her. “I know that I should have done it differently, talked to you—”

“Yeah, you should have.” Darcy takes a deep breath, reminding herself she didn’t come to fight. “Up here,” she taps her temple with a finger, “I understand. I see where you’re coming from, and why you would be afraid. Logically.” She sighs, “But Bucky, you hurt me. You hurt me by leaving me in the gym that day—” It’s her turn to look away, hiding the sheen of tears in her eyes. “—and you hurt me by vanishing for weeks. No amount of logic is going to make that go away. I—”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “I was falling for you. Hard.” She glances back at him. He stares at her intently, reading the truth that’s no doubt written all over her face. She looks away again. “But I—I don’t know if I can let this go, Bucky. It’s still so fresh.”

His expression, which had relaxed at her confession, goes blank. She knows he’s only trying to protect himself, but it still hurts to see. _Get a grip, Darce_ , she thinks. _It’s not fair for you to expect anything else_.

“So, what now?” Bucky asks, his tone flat.

“I miss you.” Her voice cracks. “I miss our friendship.”

His smile is sad, but honest. “You have it, Darce. You’ll always have that.”

“And maybe one day—” she trails off, unable to commit to the words.

“Just say the word, doll. I’ll be there.”

She eyes him, wary of breaking the fragile truce. He quirks a brow. “What is it, Darce?”

Biting her lip, she asks him, “Is it too much to ask for a hug? I haven’t gotten one from you since—” she cuts herself off, not ready to think about Ian.

In silent answer, he opens his arms.

It feels like coming home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](https://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com)


	11. Party Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane has a birthday, and the Avengers are hovering nursemaids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter was supposed to be short but here, you can have this instead!
> 
> (Also, I'm in Las Vegas and have been drinking nonstop for the past several days. Please excuse any proofreading errors that I've missed.)

-:-

Darcy pauses halfway into downward-facing dog when she hears a knock on her door. Easing herself fully into the stretch, she takes a couple of deep, even breaths. Eyes on the floor, she calls, “FRIDAY, can you tell me who that is, please?”

The AI answers immediately. “Agent Romanov requests entrance, Miss Lewis.”

With one last deep inhale, Darcy pulls herself out of the stretch and moves to answer the door. Nat is probably checking to make sure she’s following her yoga regimen. Darcy has yet to be cleared to resume self-defense training—and quite frankly, she’s nervous about starting again, worried about the memories it will dredge up. Nat can probably tell, which is why she’s been fairly lenient about it, only insisting that Darcy practice yoga every day.

As Darcy opens the door, her saucy comment about not being able to do yoga if no one leaves her in peace dies on her lips. Natasha’s expression is as stoic as ever. But she’s carrying a large Starbucks coffee (a caramel macchiato, if Darcy has to guess) and a paper bag touting the name of Darcy’s favorite pastry shop.

She raises an eyebrow at her friend, props a hip against the doorjamb, and tsks. “Bribery, Nat? Really?”

Natasha offers a tiny smile, but maintains her somber expression. Darcy slowly straightens from her slouch. “May I come in, milaya? I have something to talk to you about.”

Without answering, Darcy opens the door wide and steps aside. She leads Nat to the sofa, and sits stiffly across from her friend. Nat offers her the sweets. Darcy takes a sip from the drink—caramel macchiato, she was right—but sets the food on the coffee table. Her stomach is too tied up in knots to eat, and her mind has already conjured a million awful scenarios. “What is it, Nat? You’re starting to scare me.”

Making a visible effort to put Darcy at ease, Nat relaxes her posture slightly. Darcy follows suit, cradling her coffee in her hands and leaning against the cushions of the couch. Natasha stares her down for a moment longer, gauging her emotional readiness for whatever comes next. Darcy lifts her chin, just a little.

“It’s about Ian. And AIM.”

Darcy swallows the urge to vomit. Her breath echoes harshly in one ear, and she fights off a wave of dizziness. When her fingers tighten dangerously on the cup of hot coffee, she forces herself to put it down on the table. Her hands tremble as she moves, and she whispers, “What is it?”

Clearly deciding that she’s doing more harm than good by dragging it out, Nat replies, “Ian’s autopsy came back. And it confirms information that I recovered from some AIM…safehouses.”

Her stomach churns. Leaning forward, Darcy tentatively puts a hand on Natasha’s ankle and pleads, “Nat, please tell me.”

“I thought you would want to know—it looks like AIM was drugging Ian, most likely without his knowledge or consent.”

Darcy sags against the couch, her head buzzing. “What do you mean, drugging him?”

“The notes indicate that they were slipping him a cocktail to make him more—susceptible—to suggestion. And obsession, possibly. They have been targeting Jane’s research for a long time, apparently. Enough to set this up. And the coroner confirmed the presence of high levels of drugs in his system. AIM may have been doing it for years.”

It should make her feel better. And it does, a little, to know that she hadn’t misjudged him so terribly from the very beginning. But in the end, well. It’s utterly violating. She has a passing moment of pity for Ian, but it’s hard for Darcy to feel devastated for someone who looked her dead in the eyes and tried to kill her.

She sits in silence, absorbing the information. Nat sits quietly, waiting for her to process. After a minute or two, all she can muster is, “Thank you for telling me.”

Natasha nods and opens her arms in invitation. Without hesitation, Darcy crawls toward her and lays her head in Nat’s lap. As her friend strokes her hair and hums a Russian lullaby, Darcy cries.

 

* * *

 

Jane's birthday comes and goes without much fanfare. In the fallout of Darcy’s abduction and resulting injuries, they spend the entire day at home in their apartment. Darcy is still too sore to do much, so they pass the hours lying in a pillow nest on the floor of Jane’s room in their pajamas, admiring the painted ceiling.

In hushed tones, they reminisce about New Mexico, trading memories of the sweaty days of broken A/C, research benders, ill-timed and all-around bad hookups, and awful tequila. Those stories lead to tales of rainy London, and by the time Nat shows up with pizza Jane and Darcy are practically glowing with the weight of a renewed bond.

Darcy basks in the feeling; between not seeing her best friend for months and then watching her life flash before her eyes, the gentle warmth of their friendship is a balm to Darcy's battered soul. It sits tight within her chest, a little ball of light, expanding with every smile and laugh and gentle touch. Eventually, Darcy hopes, it will grow and illuminate even the darkest of shadows that have developed in the wake of the trauma Ian put her through. She's had nightmares ever since she woke up in medical. That takes time, though, so she protects the little light, tucking it away to use against the worst of her fears.

And if she and Jane are both a little clingy after everything, well—neither of them says anything about it. And then Nat shows up, and the light-hearted mood of before becomes a little more forced. They're all avoiding the elephant in the room—namely that Natasha has been away for days on a hunt to annihilate any and all AIM cells affiliated with Darcy’s kidnapping. Darcy’s seen her three times since the incident. The first was on the day she woke up—Nat was steely-eyed and furious, but the hand that stroked her hair was gentle and the voice that crooned a Russian lullaby was sweet. The second was when they talked about Bucky, before the spy set out on her personal vendetta against AIM. And the third was when Nat told her about Ian.

Now, she looks at ease and ready to enjoy the evening, which tells Darcy and Jane everything they need to know about the result of her mission. As one, they breathe twin sighs of relief. Darcy teases, “What, you didn't bring cake?”

Nat snaps her fingers in mock realization. “I knew I was forgetting something! FRIDAY, will you place an order?”

“Certainly, Agent Romanov. Dr. Foster, what is your preference?”

Jane mulls over the question for a moment, stroking her chin as if her answer has galactic importance. Nat and Darcy trade identical smirks. “Pineapple upside-down cake, please, FRIDAY.” Darcy grimaces slightly at the choice, but stamps down on her reaction. It's not her birthday, after all.

“The order is placed. It will be delivered shortly.” There’s a pause, and then FRIDAY adds, “And if I may, Dr. Foster. Happy birthday.”

Jane grins brightly, pleased. “Why thank you, FRIDAY.”

With a snicker, Darcy coos, “Tony is going to be so jealous!”

Jane throws a napkin at her. Darcy catches and pretends to wipe her mouth with it, even though they haven't started eating yet. Speaking of which—

“Uhh, Nat, do you think maybe you brought a little too much pizza?” There are at least 8 or 9 boxes in the pile. Gesturing at Jane and herself, she points out, “ Like, I know we're not dainty eaters or anything, but this is a little ridiculous.”

“Oh, no. If only we knew some super soldiers who could help us out with all this extra pizza I seem to have ordered on accident,” Nat deadpans, looking straight at Darcy with a tiny smirk at the corner of her mouth.

Opening her mouth to chastise Nat for not even attempting to hide her blatant matchmaking, Darcy is cut off when Jane chimes in, “Actually, that's a great idea. I still haven't thanked Steve and Bucky for helping with the ceiling.”

That's…an entirely logical argument. Too proud to admit she's been beaten, Darcy snags a slice of pizza and takes an overly large bite. She munches fiercely, glaring at Natasha the whole time. The whole universe seems to be colluding to put her in the same room as Bucky. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, just—Darcy has all these _feelings_. And no idea what to do with them.

Nat’s smirk slides into a full-blown grin. Rising gracefully to her feet, she purrs, “I'll go invite them.”

Darcy sits silently for at least thirty seconds, gobsmacked over the way she’s been played by her two closest friends. Jane says nothing, but cackles quietly as she snags a slice of pizza for herself. It isn’t long before the sound of footsteps heralds their arrival—it’s almost as if Steve was waiting for an invitation. She wouldn’t put it past Steve and Nat to collude on this. The two of them are completely transparent in their matchmaking.

Steve and Sam walk through the door first, heading straight to Jane for hugs and birthday wishes. Nat follows behind, sliding back into her previous spot as if she never left. Darcy surreptitiously eyes the doorway, butterflies fluttering up a riot in her stomach at the prospect of Bucky walking through. Whether it’s anxiety or excitement, or both, she doesn’t want to know. She’s pretty sure the answer will complicate things even further.

He doesn’t come through, though. Dragging her eyes back to the rest of her friends, embarrassed, Darcy hopes she wasn’t too obvious. She's out of luck; Steve has moved on from his hug with Jane and is headed her way. He catches the guilty movement of her eyes and grins. The grin immediately turns into an uncomfortable grimace. “Bucky wasn't sure, uhh—”

Steve looks to Sam for help, but his boyfriend rolls his eyes and moves past him to give Darcy a quick hug. As he steps away, Steve finishes, “that there would be enough pizza.” Four identical snorts echo around the room.

Darcy pulls Steve in for a hug and murmurs, “Remind me to play poker with you sometime, Steve. You're a terrible liar.” He grins and nudges her shoulder gently in retaliation. Of course, a gentle nudge from Steve is enough to rock her back on her heels. Darcy rubs her shoulder in mock agony, scrunching up her nose at him. He ignores her, instead plopping down on the floor next to Jane (and closest to the pizza pile).

“Rude, Rogers. Don't you know you're not supposed to beat up an invalid?” she jokes, moving to reclaim her spot. She finally has the cushions exactly where she wants them for maximum comfort, and she refuses to let anyone steal it.

“Yeah, Cap. What's gotten into you? Next we know, you'll be beating up little old ladies in the street,” Sam teases, settling cross-legged next to him.

As he sits, Sam reaches past his boyfriend to snag the piece of pizza Steve had been reaching for, snarking, “On your left!”

Darcy and Jane burst into giggles, having heard tales of Steve's horribly awkward attempts at a first impression. Steve reaches to snag the piece of pizza, but Sam jerks it out of reach with a toothy grin. “Nah, man. This piece is mine. You still owe me for that nonsense.”

Steve sighs with faux annoyance. “How long are you going to hold that over me?”

“As long as I can.”

“Not long enough,” Natasha says at the same time, smiling broadly.

They continue bickering happily. Darcy soaks it in, loving the blissful pair they make. Her fingers itch for her phone. The snark and the sass remind her of Bucky, and she wishes he was here. But he isn't, because he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable. Like the good guy he is. _Ugh_.

Not allowing herself to second-guess the urge, Darcy whips out her phone to snap a picture of Steve and Sam arguing as they stuff their faces. She sends it to Bucky.  
  
_You know it’ll be your fault if Captain America gets so fat he doesn’t fit in his uniform._

His reply is almost instantaneous, and she can almost feel the force of his eye roll across the floors that separate them.

_Not sure what I’m supposed to do about that, doll._

She bites her lip, then decides. _Well for one, you could come eat your share. That would help._

There’s no reply. Darcy puts her phone face down on the blankets, disappointed but determined not to dwell on it. She has no right to be upset—she told him she needed time, wasn't ready. She has no right to demand anything of him. But, still. It hurts. She grappled with herself, forcing those emotions into a little box to take out and deal with later.

Jolting slightly as someone plops down on the blankets next to her, Darcy looks up to see Bucky peering at her. “What's wrong, Darce?” He looks around at their friends, who are all attempting to pretend they aren't watching the two of them like hawks (and of course only Nat is even remotely convincing). With a chuckle, he asks, “Did Stevie eat all your favorite pizza? I swear his ma taught him how to share, though you wouldn't know it. The punk has no table manners.”

Sam glances back and forth between Steve and Bucky, eyes wide as though watching a particularly thrilling tennis match. Steve howls in indignation, then launches himself at Bucky. They roll around on the floor like a pair of puppies, and only some quick thinking from Nat and Sam saves the pizza boxes from getting crushed under their weight.

Dodger ignores the antics of his human and comes to sit pressed tightly against Darcy’s side. He pants in her face happily, and accepts her tentative ear scratches with a dopey, blissful expression. Jane stretches a hand out in friendship, which Dodger accepts with a wet lick. Jane scrunches up her nose but doesn't object.

Darcy laughs loudly at the look on Jane’s face, wishing she had thought to take a picture. Dodger wags his tail happily at the sound, and joins in the fun with a wet swipe of his tongue down the length of her face. This, of course, makes Darcy laugh harder. She pushes Dodger away slightly to reach for a napkin. As she wipes away his slobber, she looks up. No longer wrestling with Steve, Bucky is crouched on the balls of his feet and looking between her and his dog with a peculiar look on his face. The emotion visible there is palpable, and Darcy glances away quickly before her brain can betray her by naming it.

It isn't until later, when Jane is waxing poetic about the beauty (and more importantly, the _accuracy_ ) of the painting on her ceiling that Darcy remembers Bucky’s efforts to protect her privacy from their friend’s nosiness.

She lightly nudges his knee with hers. When he looks up at her questioningly, a lock of hair falls forward into his face. Her breath stutters hotly in her chest, frustrated by the sheer attractiveness of the man. Swallowing it and the sharp surge of desire down, Darcy manages to smile and mouth _thank you_ at him.

Whether or not he knows what she's referring to, Bucky tucks the lock of hair behind his ear and smiles in return. He even winks at her, the wretch. Before her thudding pulse and rising blush can give her away, Dodger surges between them, wriggling his body over their laps in the cutest demand for cuddles Darcy has ever seen.

With matching wry grins, they give in to his whining pleas. Darcy tries and fails to not think of the picture they must make, hip to hip with his dog spread across them.

 _You could have this_ , her heart whispers.

 _But for how long?_ her brain wonders.

She shakes off those thoughts, determined to appreciate the joy of the moment.

The evening passes in a blur of laughter, good pizza, and warm friendship.

 

* * *

 

A plop of boots on her desk startles Darcy out of a paperwork haze. She leans back in her chair, absently rubbing at her temple. Her concussion is gone and she's been cleared for work at this point, but she still has to deal with various aches and pains.

Like stiffness in her shoulder when she stays in one position for too long. Or a headache, when she stares at the computer screen for hours on end. Or both, like right now. The rattling of a pill bottle reminds her that someone has invaded her desk space, and she looks up at the intruder.

It's Tony, peering at her from the other side of her desk. He drops his feet back to the floor, leaning forward to shake two of the little white pills into his palm. Dropping them onto her paperwork, he eyes her expectantly until she rolls her eyes and swallows them. She doesn't protest—the Avengers are extremely diligent nursemaids, apparently, and Darcy has long since learned not to argue.

The whole routine plays out in silence. Tony hates when people call attention to the fact that he's a human being capable of caring for others, so he refuses to draw attention to it. He’ll go to ridiculous lengths to avoid acknowledging it altogether, so Darcy doesn't thank him for the medication. She watches him expectantly when he doesn’t get up to leave immediately, though.

“Did you need something, Tony?”

He ignores the question. Making a show of looking her over critically, Tony hums thoughtfully. Darcy waits exasperatedly. There’s no rushing Tony when he’s in this kind of mood, unfortunately.

Just as she’s on the verge of giving up and turning back to her computer, Tony speaks. “Well, Short Stack, I think that’s as good as it’s gonna get.” Tilting his head to the side, he remarks, “I bet if you use some of that—” he gesticulates wildly, “—that magic makeup stuff women do, everything’ll be just fine.”

“ _What_ are you talking about, Tony?”

“That makeup—you know, the kind that hides bruises or hickeys or whatever.”

Darcy stares at him in confusion, but Jane pipes up from across the lab, “Concealer. He’s talking about concealer, Darce.”

Tony snaps his fingers in realization. “Concealer, that’s it! Some concealer and you’ll be good as new, Double D.”

Vaguely offended, Darcy demands, “What exactly do I need concealer for, Tony? I’m not pretty enough to work in the lab anymore?”

He blinks rapidly, a look of bemusement written all over his face as if he can’t imagine how he got caught in this trap. “What? No, I didn’t say that. Did I say that?” he flounders. “That’s not what I meant, Double D. I just—”

Darcy can’t help it; she bursts out laughing. Any lingering indignation is washed away in the face of Tony’s frantic damage control. He shuts his mouth abruptly, glaring at her. He opens it, points at her accusingly, and then shuts it again.

His mouth works as he tries to think of what to say. “See, this is what I get for trying to be nice and give you enough time to get over your bruises and concussion or whatever.”

Confused, Darcy bursts out, “Enough time for _what_ , Tony?”

“For Mighty Mouse’s birthday party, of course.” At her groan, he says, “What? It’s a great idea. We’ll celebrate her turning into an old academic and also the fact that you aren’t dead.” Peering through his eyelashes at her, he asks, “Was that too soon?”

Jane shouts, “Yes!” at the same time as Darcy brings her thumb and forefinger together in a gesture that clearly indicates, _just a smidge, Tony. Just a smidge_.

He shrugs. “Whoops. Anyway, you’ve got a week. Talk to Pep about anything you need.” With a wave in the general direction of her face, he clarifies, “Like concealer. Or whatever.”

Before he can escape through the door, Darcy asks desperately, “Is there any way we can _not_ do this? No offense, Janie.”

Tony says, “No way,” at the same time as Jane’s muffled, “None taken,” drifts out from under a lab table. Darcy has no idea what she’s looking for under there—she really hopes it’s not a poptart. Gross.

At the expression on Darcy’s face, Tony books it for the door, not even pretending to be smooth. “Just look at it this way, Lewis. At least I gave you advance notice!” And then he’s gone, before Darcy can find something on her desk to throw at him.

She’s sorely tempted to bang her head on the desk, giving herself another concussion and a reason not to go. It’s not even that she doesn’t like Tony’s parties—she and Jane have had an embarrassingly good time at some of them—but she’s felt so uncomfortable in her own skin ever since her abduction and hasn’t yet been able to shake off the lingering paranoia and fear. Tony knows something about that, she thinks. He’s probably trying to help, in his own ego-driven Tony-centric way.

The jackass would probably still make her go even if she did have a concussion.

 _Ugh_.

 

* * *

 

 _Well, at least this is relatively tame for one of Tony’s parties_ , Darcy observes internally. She's holding up the wall in a less-crowded area of the room. Not hiding, she tells herself. Just…catching her breath.

After a rough couple of nights—waking up on a sharp gasp, muscles tense and ready to flee from some faceless danger—she isn't really up for her usual method of enjoying these parties, which generally involves drinking freely and flitting and flirting from one group to the next. Just the thought of it is exhausting, but Darcy smiles all the same when Jane catches her eye.

With a resigned push off the wall, Darcy goes to join her best friend. She seems to be having a wonderful time, so Darcy can't really begrudge Tony for hosting the party. Quite frankly, Jane’s genius doesn’t get celebrated nearly often enough, despite the numerous times her research has played a key role in saving the world. So, Darcy will take every opportunity to help shine a light on her friend. Even if it means she has to referee an ‘intellectual discussion’ on some new tech gadget Tony wants to add to his suit.

If she were to plug her ears, it would probably look as though Jane and Tony were having a competition over who could make the most ridiculously-expansive hand motions without hitting anyone in the face. As of right now, Tony might be winning. But what Jane lacks in size she makes up for with sheer determination, so it’s a close call.

Darcy’s in the middle of mentally calculating the negative karma she'll acquire if she sneaks out early when Sam appears out of nowhere. “You look like you could use a rescue,” he whispers low in her ear.

Nodding frantically, she tries to avoid drawing the scientists’ attention. Sam chuckles at her eagerness, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “The senior citizens and I are holding a strategic position against the wall back that way.”

Darcy snorts at the characterization—it seems she’s not the only one who’s engaging in a bit of self-deception this evening—when she follows his motion and chokes on her own spit.

“Damn,” she mutters. _Senior citizens_ doesn’t even come close to describing the pair. Darcy takes a second to appreciate how good Steve looks in a tailored suit, but her gaze inexorably drifts to Bucky. She can’t seem to help it. It’s all too much: a slim black suit, a jaw that looks like it could cut glass, and the twinkle in his eye that Darcy swears she can spot from all the way across the room. Dodger adds an unbearable cuteness to the whole thing—his black fur matches the super soldiers’ formal attire, and he sits proud and alert.

Sam follows her gaze and grins. “Yeah. I know, right? That much pretty should be illegal.” He takes a step in their direction, but Darcy falters.

Smoothing a hand down the sides of her fitted red dress, she jokes, “I don’t know if I want to go over there and ruin the picture they make. I mean, how are you supposed to compete with all that?”

Sam answers her with mock seriousness. “Exactly. I’d be worried, except I have it on good authority that Barnes’ heart is fully engaged elsewhere.” With a smirk and a wink, he steers her forward.

All she can do is smack at his arm ineffectually. They’ve drawn too close for her to risk any further comment. Steve is the first to speak. “Wow, Darcy. You look amazing.” He gives her a warm hug.

When he draws back, Darcy mocks him with a curtsey, sassing, “Don’t sound so surprised, Rogers. I know how to dress nicely when the occasion calls for it.”

Steve throws up his hands in surrender, chuckling. He elbows Bucky roughly, who turns slightly to glare at him. Turning back in her direction, Bucky moves forward to embrace her. His hands linger on her back, the heat of his touch leaving permanent imprints on her skin, and he murmurs in her ear, “You do look gorgeous, doll.”

As he draws away, his hands brush lightly along her shoulders and down her arms. Darcy tries to ignore tendrils of heat that follow in their wake. She fails.

“Thank you, Bucky,” she smiles, cheeks warm at the compliment. She may have drawn a little too much inspiration from 40s makeup and hair in her preparation for the evening, but no one’s called her out on it.

The four of them spend an hour in their little bubble, buffered against the more adventurous party-goers. After a while, Darcy gets a little fatigued. She rocks from foot to foot, but can’t get comfortable. With a small grimace, she excuses herself with an absent apology and heads for the closest private spot she can find.

When she enters the kitchen, she knows she’s made the right choice. The relative silence is exactly what she needed, and she savors it. The sounds of the party are muted through the walls, and the quiet allows her to finally catch her breath. Darcy allows her head to drop gently against the cool metal of the refrigerator. It sends a chill through her skull, dulling the pounding of her temples. She lingers there, taking deep breaths and focusing on relaxing each muscle.

The click-clack of paws on tile alerts her to Dodger’s approach. Raising her head slowly, she meets his curious stare. “Hey, cutie,” she coos before remembering that the dog never strays very far from his human. A soft chuckle distracts her from Dodger’s exuberant tail wags. Bucky’s grin is broad, stretching across his face and lighting up his eyes. It's contagious; despite the headache that lingers at her temples, Darcy finds herself grinning back.

Bucky’s gaze flickers from Dodger to Darcy and back. His grin stretches even further, and Darcy gets lost in the curve of his cheek and the brightness of his happiness. He speaks, and she forcibly draws herself back to the moment. “He's been staring in the direction of the kitchen ever since you left. At first I thought something might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure he just likes you.” Dodger’s tail wags even harder in agreement.

Darcy blushes, hard. “Well, I like him too. And nothing’s wrong, I just…got a little overstimulated, you know? And a bit of headache.” She rubs her temple as she talks. The pain is back with a vengeance at the reminder.

Bucky takes a step forward, then stops. Waggling his fingers self-consciously, he tentatively offers, “I could help? I, uhh—know pressure points?” Darcy huffs a laugh as he continues, “And I have a lot of experience with headaches.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully, and he waits patiently without moving a muscle. On one hand, her head hurts like hell, and Bucky doesn't boast unnecessarily. On the other, it could be awkward later. The pounding in her head and the prospect of Bucky’s touch win out, and she nods.

He steps forward and she leans into him, closing her eyes. When his metal hand makes contact with her head, she sighs in open pleasure. His touch is cool and firm against the hot chaos of her head. As he rubs gently in a tight circle, Darcy can feel every single muscle in her back relax.

Her head dips forward, sliding into a spot at his neck as if she was made to be there. He brings his other hand to her head, massaging the stress away. She has no idea how long they stand there—she's only aware of the smell and warmth of him, and the pleasure of his fingers on her skull.

 _This_ , she thinks drunkenly, _This is peace_. Of their own volition, her arms encircle his waist, and she uses him to maintain her balance (that's her excuse and she's sticking to it). His fingers falter, and she reluctantly steps back.

Opening her eyes, Darcy blinks rapidly against the bright lights of the kitchen. Bucky's face swims into focus. He eyes her in concern. “Any better, doll?” he asks. She sways a little, floating in a pleasant endorphin haze.

“So so _so_ much better,” she groans.

Bucky laughs and brushes her hair behind her ear. “Glad I could help, doll.”

Reluctantly, Darcy gestures toward the door. “I think I’m gonna go to sleep now, before the headache comes back.” With a shy smile, she adds, “Thank you for the help. I’ve had a tough time with headaches ever since—well, ever since.”

A frown darkens Bucky’s expression at the reminder. “Well, I’m always here if you need me, Darce. Want company on the way up?” Nodding his head at Dodger, he adds, “This one could use a walk anyway.” His cheeks are a little flushed under the kitchen lights—it must be hot in the kitchen.

“I’d love that,” she replies. Her own face feels a little warm. They clearly need to get out of here.

The trip to her apartment seems to take forever and no time at all. At the door, they meet halfway for another hug. Dodger joins in, wiggling in between their bodies with a happy whine. He licks ecstatically at their hands, and they pull away. The smell of wintry leather lingers in Darcy's nostrils, and she surreptitiously watches Bucky and Dodger from her doorway as they continue down the hall.

 _Girl, you are in so much trouble_.  
  
When she finally falls asleep after punching her pillow for hours, she doesn’t have any nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](https://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com)


	12. Two Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers find themselves in trouble, and it brings Darcy and Bucky closer together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, it's an update!
> 
> well, I keep saying that I won't be updating anything during nanowrimo, but i tripped and fell and oh look--something for y'all. but seriously, i will not be updating this again until next month, so please bear with me. I hope this chapter is enough to tide you over until then. :)

“Desss-paaaa-ciiiiiito—”

Popping one earphone out as she exits the elevator, making sure no one’s waiting to enter (namely Bucky, because that would be excruciatingly embarrassing), Darcy continues her off-key song and dance routine. “Pasito a pasito, suave suavecito,” she belts out, shimmying her hips as she moves down the hall. She can’t carry a tune in a bucket and her accent is probably atrocious from a lack of practice, but she doesn’t care.

Her heart is still pumping endorphins after her workout. The soreness lingers pleasantly in her limbs, and she feels clean and fresh. Whoever came up with the idea of putting showers within easy reach of the gym deserves a raise, in her opinion. Proud of herself for sticking with her workout even though Natasha isn’t in the tower to remind her, she pulls out her phone to text her friend. Snapping a selfie, Darcy types out _kicking my own ass since you aren’t here to do it for me_ with a wink emoji and presses send.

Her friend had gotten called in for an emergency assemble this morning, so she probably wouldn’t respond to Darcy right away. Knowing how tough those calls can be on Nat’s mental state, Darcy tries to send her funny or sweet texts. Anything that can help bring the light back into her friend’s eyes when it’s all over. Task completed, she continues her voyage down the hall. “This is how we do it in Puerto Rico,” she hums under her breath, toning it down now that she’s within hearing distance (for a supersoldier, anyway) of Bucky’s apartment.

Momentarily distracted by a colorful flickering coming from the empty common room, Darcy pauses. Yanking the other earphone out of her ear, she moves to investigate. FRIDAY’s voice distracts her.

“Miss Lewis, I have enacted Protocol ‘ _Keep My Friends Safe_ ’ as per your orders. Live footage of the altercation is currently being displayed on the common room television.”

Ice rushes through Darcy’s veins. Despite her friends’ objections, she’d insisted on having the AI notify her when one or all of them appeared to be in serious danger during a fight. Nat in particular had been upset about it, but Darcy wouldn’t budge. If something happened to her friends, Thor forbid, she didn’t want to find out after the fact. Loudly and vehemently, she had insisted that she’d rather bear witness instead. Panic freezes her for a second, then she moves toward the common room. Whatever else happens, there’s no use standing in the hall.

 

* * *

 

With a contented sigh, Bucky drops the towel he’d been using to dry his hair into the laundry basket and pads toward the kitchen for a bottle of water. He can see Dodger from the entrance to his bedroom, sprawled across the tile of the dining area with his tongue lolling to one side. His exaggerated panting makes Bucky chuckle; clearly, he’s finally found a way to wear his dog out. And if it takes many more trips to Central Park for a run and a game of fetch to keep his dog happy and satisfied, well, that’s a sacrifice he’ll just have to make.

As he passes the living room, the images flickering across the television stop him in his tracks. He’s gotten into the habit of leaving it on whenever he’s in the apartment, because his head is sometimes too full of ghosts to bear silence comfortably or well. Usually, it doesn’t bother him, just functions as background noise. Of course, it doesn’t usually show his best friend and the rest of the Avengers locked in a battle they might not win, either.

Abandoning his route to the fridge, Bucky blindly heads for the couch and calls for Dodger.

 

* * *

 

When Steve takes a devastating hit from one of the grotesque creatures—what the hell _are_ they and where did they come from??—Darcy has a sudden epiphany. Like a shot, she’s out of her seat and racing down the hallway.

_Bucky_.

She skids to a stop at his doorway, wondering, _What if he hasn’t seen the footage? Would she be worrying him unnecessarily?_ Huffing a breath, she blows still-damp hair out of her face. If the roles were reversed, she would want him to let her know. With that in mind, she quietly asks, “FRIDAY, is Bucky in his apartment?”

“He is, Miss Lewis.”

“Will you ask if he minds company? I—”

Before she even finishes her thought, the door opens with a click. As she gapes at the immediate response, the AI informs her, “Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers updated the codes to their apartment several weeks ago, Miss Lewis. You have permanent access.”

Darcy falters in the doorway, then hurries on. She’ll have to think about the implications of that later.

 

* * *

 

The thudding of quick footsteps has the muscles in Bucky’s back tensing heavily, but he doesn’t turn away from the scene in front of him. Dodger’s ears twitch and his tail wags faintly, but he doesn’t move from Bucky’s side. Instead, he moves even closer, wedging his head more firmly into his human’s lap. Bucky’s fingers sift through Dodger’s fur on autopilot, gripping and holding on tight.

The footsteps fade as the person slows in the doorway. The smell of her shampoo wafts through the room, replacing the sound of her movements. His muscles relax in response. _Darcy_. With incredible effort, Bucky shifts his gaze from the screen to glance at her from the corner of his eye. She isn’t looking at him. Her eyes are riveted to the screen, her white-knuckled grip digging into the door frame. He hesitates, confused, then realizes— _ah_. Natalia. Checking quickly, he confirms that although the team is fighting ferociously neither Steve nor Natalia is in particular danger at the moment. That knowledge does nothing to ease the ball of panic in his chest or the riotous poison in his stomach. Shifting his eyes back to Darcy, his eyes meet hers. She stares back, fingers spasming with tension.

Blinking rapidly and licking her lips anxiously, she stutters, “I saw—” Cutting to the screen and then back to him immediately, as if the image burns her eyes, she continues, “I’m scared, Bucky. And I thought you might want company, too.” Rocking back on her heels, she bites her lip. “If you want to be alone, I can just—” She turns her head toward the hallway that leads to the front door, as if to leave.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches to stop her. His prosthetic arm is outstretched in her direction, begging. He’s half out of his seat already, every atom of his being focused on her. The screen flickers, forgotten for the moment, and Dodger watches them curiously. “No,” he explodes, too harsh and too loud. She jerks to a halt. Hand still outstretched, he adds, “Please. Stay.”

Before, all he wanted was to sit in solitude and witness the fight in silence. Now, he wants her to stay. Something shifts in his chest at the silent confession, and he can breathe again. She moves again, and this time it’s toward him. The weight crushing his chest lightens even further, and he takes a deep breath. His lungs feel strange, fully expanding for the first time in what feels like hours. The smell of her shampoo floods his nostrils and he takes another lungful of air. Closing his eyes, he lets it linger.

When he opens them again, she’s standing right next to him. With a shy smile, she brushes an uncertain finger along the arm of the couch and greets Dodger softly. His tail gives an excited thump but he doesn’t move from Bucky’s lap, and Darcy doesn’t reach out to touch him. With a small quirk of his lips in return, Bucky shifts himself and Dodger over on the couch to give her room to sit down.

They sit quietly for a long time, captivated by the live footage of the Avengers’ battle. Darcy’s fingers clench and unclench at every maneuver, and she bites her lip so hard he’s afraid it might bleed. Before he can move to comfort her, Steve leaves his back unprotected. Bucky’s lungs seize when his best friend loses his shield and engages one of the creatures in hand-to-hand combat. He freezes, unable to look away. Digging his fingers into Dodger’s fur even harder, he only remembers to breathe when the dog presses hard against his leg and whines comfortingly.

Steve disengages, and Bucky comes back to himself. He straightens his back and focuses on taking even, deep breaths. With increased awareness comes the sound of Darcy’s erratic breathing. She doesn’t meet his eyes. Her body is as taut as one of Clint’s bowstrings, leaning forward toward the screen as if to throw herself between the Avengers and danger. Natalia suffers a particularly hard blow and topples over. She’s immediately back on her feet, Steve rushing to cover her, but Darcy gasps and jerks violently.

In the flickering light of the screen, Bucky can see that her pupils are blown wide. Without thinking, he grabs her hand. She latches on like it’s a lifeline. The tight grip can’t hide the way her hand trembles in his. Shifting to lace their fingers together, he rubs soothing circles with his thumb. They’re sitting close enough together that he can feel the way her shoulder relaxes against his. Buffered on both sides by Darcy and Dodger, he can feel his own muscles begin to unwind.

“They’ll be alright, doll,” he murmurs. The words are dry on his tongue, but they resonate in the quiet room like a prayer. Darcy finally turns from the screen to look at him. The worry written all over her face is unbearable. He untangles his hand from hers, moving to wrap his prosthetic arm around her instead. As he pulls her in, he’s gratified to find that she relaxes into his body immediately. He takes her hand again with his other one, resuming the soothing circles. She lays her head against his chest.

At this proximity, it’s impossible to ignore her warmth or the smell of her hair. Bucky is overcome with the sudden hope that she attributes the renewed pounding of his heart to the battle playing out on screen. Terrified of scaring her away, he holds her as lightly as possible. Dissatisfied with the remaining distance, she nestles even closer. A sharp nudge on his other side from Dodger’s nose reminds Bucky to breathe.

Several minutes later, Steve takes a serious hit that sends him flying. All the air around Bucky goes stale, and he gasps uselessly. Unlike before, Steve doesn’t get back up right away, and Bucky chokes on empty lungs, vision wavering slightly. Unintentionally, his arms tighten around Darcy. She jerks under his grip. Immediately, he lets go and leans away, worried that he’s hurt her.

Before he can utter any panicked apologies, though, Darcy is back, gently but firmly drawing him into _her_ arms. She leans back against the arm of the couch, taking him with her. Stroking his hair and upper back, she mutters soothing nonsense and shushing noises in his ear, telling him that Steve’s okay, see? He’s already gotten back up. He can’t look back at the screen; instead he focuses on the softness of her skin under his cheek. On the comfort of her embrace and the warmth of Dodger pressed against his back. On the streaks of bliss that flow through him as her fingers slide through his hair. They echo down his spine, all the way to his fingers and toes.

“Look, Buck,” she eventually whispers, nudging him. He turns his head toward the TV, unwilling to leave her embrace. The Avengers stand tall and triumphant among the smoking rubble. Everyone looks to be intact, if slightly battered and bruised. They breathe identical sighs of relief at the sight. Even Dodger offers his own huff, which makes Darcy and Bucky laugh.

The scene cuts to the news anchors, and Darcy asks FRIDAY to turn off the TV. After the slightest hesitation, Bucky draws away from her. Shyly, they meet each other’s eyes. He desperately hopes she won’t draw away from him—they both needed the comfort, and he wants it them to bring them closer, not further apart. Smiling softly, he asks, “Walk down to medical with me? I gotta make sure the punk didn’t do no permanent damage to himself.”

Just like that, all her shyness falls away and she grins. “Of course. I’ve gotta give Nat hell, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

The trip down to the medical floor is mostly silent. It’s a comfortable quiet, punctuated only by the sound of their footsteps and Dodger’s soft panting breaths as they go. They elevator light is bright and harsh as they enter, a direct contrast to the coziness of his apartment. Midway through their descent, FRIDAY informs them that the team is only a few minutes away. “Though injuries have been reported, all of the team members are stable,” she informs them.

Their twin sighs of relief echo in the small space. Bucky turns his head to grin at Darcy; it’s a little wobbly, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She reaches over to give his fingers a quick squeeze. Her touch doesn’t linger, but Bucky’s prosthetic arm sends all sorts of data about the warmth and pressure of her fingers. The information is seared into his brain.

Out of the corner of his eye Bucky catches sight of Darcy flexing her fingers slightly, almost as if they're tingling. Before he can dwell on what that could possibly mean, the elevator opens to complete mayhem and chaos. With matching shrugs of resignation, they go their separate ways: Bucky and Dodger to Steve, and Darcy to Nat.

After a steadying inhale—Dodger pressed reassuringly against his thigh as always—Bucky raps his knuckles on the door frame of Steve’s temporary room. His best friend is stretched out on a bed, head turned toward the window, but his head swivels to look in Bucky’s direction at the sound. Bucky moves forward, worried. Steve looks terrible. One eye is swollen almost completely shut, and cuts and bruises cover what's visible of his face and neck.

To mask the anxiety thrumming through his veins, Bucky runs a slightly-trembling hand through his hair and sighs in mock exasperation. “For fuck’s sake, punk. I thought we talked about this. You gotta learn to _evade_ the enemy’s attacks, so you don’t wind up lookin’ like a damn punching bag.”

Steve sees right through him—they’ve been best friends for too long for him to be fooled. Eyes twinkling, he brags, “I was a little busy, you know. Savin’ the world, and all that.” _The little shit_. His teasing tone has its intended effect; Bucky’s tense muscles slowly relax, now that he knows that Steve isn’t in any real danger.

It’s not like he can let the punk have the last word, though.  “Whatever you say, pal. You never took hits like that when _I_ was around to watch your back.” His words hang in the air, heavier than he meant them to be.

Before he can open his mouth to deflect, Steve responds. With a considering gleam in his eyes, he says slowly, “That’s true, Buck. No one I’d rather have on my six.” Bucky flinches, but Steve continues, “But I think we both know your heart isn’t in the fight anymore.” With a jerk of his chin in Dodger’s direction, he muses, “You got Dodger now, and your girl. You can watch my back at home.” Bucky’s chest eases at the genuine grin on Steve’s face, happy that there are no hard feelings. Still—

“She ain’t my girl,” Bucky mumbles. He turns his head toward the window, letting his hair fall forward to shield his face. His efforts are in vain. Steve spots the blush staining his cheeks and snickers.

“Whatever you say, Buck. Whatever you say.” He suddenly clutches his side, biting off mid-laughter at the discomfort it causes his ribs. Serves the punk right. Bucky is saved any further embarrassment by the arrival of Sam, who takes one look at the two of them and quirks an eyebrow.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

Moving away from the bed to give him room to stand by his boyfriend, Bucky replies, “Nothing.” His response comes too quickly, and he winces. _Way to play it cool, Barnes_.

Sam looks at him skeptically, then rolls his eyes. “Alright,” he drawls, and lets it go. Steve snickers in the background—softer this time, in consideration of his ribs.

_Lord save me_ , Bucky groans internally. _There are two of ‘em now_.

 

* * *

 

She can hear the argument as soon as she rounds the corner closest to Nat’s medical room. The fire in Clint’s voice is matched by the ice in Natasha’s, and Darcy enters the room before she can think better of it.

“Damn it, Natasha, I told you to wait for backup. What were you—” Clint cuts himself off as soon as he sees Darcy.

Scuffing a shoe against the floor, Darcy jerks a thumb over her shoulder and offers, “I can come back.”

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Shaking his head, he says, “No, it’s your turn to talk some sense into her. I’ll be back later, before I say something I’ll actually regret.” On his way out the door, he tosses over his shoulder, “But can we please go back to remembering that it’s _my_ job to do stupid, reckless shit?” And then he’s gone.

She stares at the empty doorway for a moment, then raises an eyebrow at her injured friend. “Yikes. Everything okay, Nat? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

Shifting slightly on the bed, Natasha replies, “Tch. It’s just his way of showing he cares. He’ll cool off and come back later.”

Propping herself on the side of the bed, Darcy takes her friend’s hand and asks, “You are okay, right? You had me worried there for a while.”

“I wish you wouldn’t watch the battles, milaya,” Nat says. Darcy simply stares at her, stubborn, and Nat shakes her head ruefully. “But you’re going to do it anyway, I know. And I am fine. The only reason I’m in medical is because Clint insisted. Loudly, and repeatedly.”

“You literally have a broken arm, Nat. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t make me tie you down.”

“Kinky,” her friend drawls. “But I think you should save that kind of talk for Barnes, when you finally get around to putting yourselves both out of your misery.”

“Nat!” she cries, incredulous. “Seriously? You’re laid up after a fight with a broken arm and you’re still pulling the matchmaking shit?”

Chuckling, Nat replies, “What better time? You can’t hit me or run away without feeling guilty.”

Darcy lets out a shriek of irritation that only birds and dogs could possibly hear. Nat’s chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh, and she clutches her ribs with her good arm. It’s good to see her okay, even with that giant bruise on her face.

 

* * *

 

As she heads for the elevators, Darcy spots Bucky leaving Steve’s room and calls his name. He turns immediately, offering a tired grin. “Hey, doll.”

She’s halfway across tto him before she even realizes what she’s doing. He looks worn down, and her only aim is to bring a smile back to his face. Realizing how that sounds, even if it’s only in her head, she stops short. He looks at her quizzically and she covers by asking, “How’s Steve?”

Bucky’s sigh says it all. “The punk got himself knocked around good this time, but he’ll be alright. Natalia?”

“She’s about the same.” With a commiserating grin, Darcy teases, “Why do we even put up with them, am I right?”

He grins in response, and they step into the elevator together. “You okay?” she asks, knocking her shoulder into his gently.

With a sigh, he admits, “I’m exhausted, but I don’t think I could sleep. Too much stress and adrenaline.” His head falls back against the wall of the elevator, and the harsh lighting highlights the bruises under his eyes.

Before she can think better of it, she blurts out, “Me too.” He looks over at her, and she elaborates, “I’m all wired up and jittery, but my body’s too tired to do anything active.”

“Exactly. I was gonna head to the kitchen, maybe make somethin’. It helps me unwind.” Peering at her through his eyelashes, he invites, “Would you like to join?”

For once shutting off her brain, Darcy replies with a simple, “Yeah, I would.”

All her doubts melt away with the force of his smile.

 

* * *

 

It’s in the middle of mixing the flour, when she reaches over to wipe a splatter off his cheek and accidentally smears it further, that she has an epiphany. He’s grinning at her openly, his already-lopsided smile made more adorable with the huge streak of white flour that cuts across it.

There’s a mischievous glint in his bright eyes that should make her nervous, but she’s too distracted with the realization that he didn’t push her away when things got rough. He panicked earlier, right in front of her—squeezed her too tight and let her hold him—and yet here he is. Keeping her close and smiling so widely and—

Hitting her full in the face with a spray of flour.

She freezes, partially from shock but also from the sound of his carefree, unfettered laughter. It fades as he puts the island between them and cocks an eyebrow in challenge. With an evil grin, she purrs, “Oh, it’s on now, Barnes.”

Slowly, she dips several fingers into the cream cheese frosting he had made by hand. She stands still long enough that the tension between them becomes almost unbearable. Then, she pounces.

When it’s all said and done, they’re both covered in flour and cream cheese frosting. Dodger’s black coat is dusted with it, too, but he’s busy cleaning up the cream cheese mess off the floor with eager licks, so he’s not complaining. Darcy’s side aches and her cheeks hurt from the non-stop laughter, and she takes deep breaths as she tries to gather her composure. Next to her, Bucky isn’t much better. They lean up against one of the counters and grin at each other. He still has that blasted streak of flour across the corner of his mouth, so she turns on the faucet and dips a paper towel under the running water.

Slowly, without meeting his eyes, she reaches up to gently wipe the flour away. She can feel the heat of his gaze on her, can feel his surprise in the little hitch of breath he takes when she steps into his space. He doesn’t move away, though. When the paper towel makes contact with his skin, he leans in. His body is so close to hers that her arm brushes against his chest. It’s her turn to falter, and neither of them moves. The warmth emanating from his skin is comforting, and her muscles slowly relax.

As she finishes her task, Darcy’s eyes are helplessly drawn to his mouth. She sways lightly on her feet, drawn like a magnet. Today is the most comfortable she’s felt around him since before the incident in the gym, and part of her wants to get swept up in the moment and see where it could take them. And just like that, she snaps out of it and steps away from him. _What the hell, Darce_. Thinking that way will only hurt both of them. She’s still not ready, and kissing him anyway would be—a huge mistake. And not fair to Bucky, who might just be trying to move on anyway. It’s not worth ruining their friendship, which is finally getting back to the level of trust they had before.

Like always, Bucky reads her like an open book. The intensity of his gaze fades as she moves away, to something gentle and tender. Which affects her just as strongly, and her heart skips a beat. With a quirked grin, he breaks the silence and the tension. “Want to clean up a bit and finish baking?”

Something loosens in her chest at the olive branch, and she nods gratefully. “That sounds good—any more of this food warfare and the kitchen might not survive.” It’s not her best joke—her brain is a little frazzled, cut her a break—but he still chuckles. They slide easily back into the rhythm, but it’s not quite the same as it was before. Not bad, just—different. There’s a new feeling resting in her chest, something warm and tender and precious. And with every sweet smile he gives her, it grows a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would mean a lot if you could leave a comment. ❤️


	13. Hold Me Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy's biggest worry comes to pass...but it doesn't work out exactly as she expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back, and I'm ready to power through to the end of this baby. I don't think I say it nearly enough, but the feedback I've had on this fic is amazing, and you are all lovely people. Every hit, kudo, and comment is very much appreciated, and I'm glad you've stuck with the story this far. 
> 
> We're coming up on six months since I published the first chapter, but I aim to have it completely posted before the anniversary. ;)
> 
> PLEASE BE WARNED: there is a description of a PTSD flashback/panic attack in this chapter. It is not told from the perspective of the person who is suffering, but it is quite descriptive. Please don't read that section if this sort of thing bothers/triggers you. If you need to skip it, stop reading when they start watching the movie, and pick back up when Darcy says "Of course not." :)

The distinctive click-clack of Dodger’s claws against the tile floor echoes throughout the kitchen. Darcy raises her head from where she was resting it against the counter, only to meet Bucky’s worried gaze. “You okay, Darce?”

At her melodramatic groan, his expression clears. With an affectionate chuckle, he and Dodger head in her direction. “Nervous?"

She turns into him, reaching for the hug he’s already offering her. “Yes,” she whispers into his shoulder. “Does that make me a bad friend?” Dodger leans against them both, and one of her hands drops to tangle lightly in his fur.

“Of course not,” he replies, cupping the back of her head in a soothing, gentle hold. “It makes you a good friend. You only want the best for Jane.”

The steady drip of the coffeemaker stops, and the sudden silence breaks the atmosphere. With one last squeeze to his ribs, she pulls away. “I do,” she sighs, reaching on autopilot to doctor the coffee exactly the way Jane likes it. When she turns back, Bucky is holding out a second travel mug for her to take. With a grateful smile that quickly turns regretful, she finishes, “Which is why I can’t stay this morning. She’ll be tearing her hair out without me. Rain check?”

His smile is genuine. Even now, when she’s a nervous wreck and running on too little sleep, that smile does things to her that should be illegal. “Of course, doll. Let me know if you need anything today, okay?”

“Thank you, Bucky.” Without thinking about it, she reaches up to place a quick kiss against his cheek. He freezes, which makes her panic and head for the door. “I’ll see you later,” she babbles as she races to the elevator. When she slides in, she takes deep, calming breaths and tries not to think about it.

All too soon, the elevator chimes as it reaches the lab floor. With a sigh, she lets go of all her thoughts about Bucky to focus on Jane. Today is about Jane; she’ll deal with all the rest of it later. And sure enough, her best friend is already in the lab. She looks like she’s been there since the crack of dawn, but her eyes are bright and her smile is chipper.

“How’s Bucky?” Jane asks as she gratefully takes the mug of coffee, slurping at it in ecstasy. Darcy rolls her eyes at the blunt question, but doesn’t have the energy to divert the question.

“What gave me up?” she asks, torn between a floaty sort of happiness and a faint embarrassment that everyone in the tower seems to be tracking her interactions with Bucky.

Jane offers a teasing grin, and the sight of it releases a knot of tension in Darcy’s gut. Things have been off between them ever since her abduction; they're as close as they've always been, nothing can change that, but… they've been uneasy around each other ever since. Jane feels guilty for Ian and Allison, she knows. No matter how many times she tells her friend that it wasn't her fault, it's something that Jane carries with her.

And Darcy isn't quite ready to talk about what happened, and she isn't sure she ever will be. Not to anyone who isn't her therapist, anyway. Who says that's perfectly fine. And Jane will never push, of course.

But they've been dancing around each other ever since. Which means that the brilliant smile on her best friend’s face is a welcome sight. Even if it's because she's making fun of her.

With a wave at Darcy’s dress, Jane finally replies, “Teal dress. Black fur.” And sure enough, there's Dodger’s fur dotting the bottom of her knee-length dress. That dog really likes to cuddle, and he's obsessed with Darcy.

“Are you ever going to put that man out of his misery?” Jane asks, momentarily serious and focused on her. “Or are you going to keep us all in limbo forever?”

Guilt churns Darcy’s gut, and she turns away. “I don't know what you're talking about.” She stares blankly at the computer screen in front of her, for once not able to make sense of the numbers that scroll across her field of vision.

With a sigh, her best friend lets it go. “Alright,” she says. “Can you come help me practice my speech?”

“Of course!” Knowing her boss is still pissed that Tony won't let her go to the International Astrophysics Conference, where Jane had been invited to be the keynote speaker, Darcy hurries over. She doesn't want to hear another rant about how the threat has been completely eradicated; even the word AIM still sends shivers down her spine, and she prefers not to think of them if at all possible.

Luckily, Darcy’s loud voice works on Tony—she'd shamelessly leveraged her friendship with Steve, and between the weight of their stares the Man of Iron had caved quite easily—and he had pulled some strings to get the stodgy old white men to allow Jane to give her presentation via webcam.

According to the event’s organizers, Jane’s presentation marks the first time a keynote speaker hasn't been physically present at the conference. They aren't too happy with the change, but Darcy couldn't care less. Her Janie is going to get the credit she deserves in the scientific community, come hell or high water.

But both of them understand the need for this evening’s speech to go flawlessly, and they've been practicing nonstop for weeks. “Right here,” Jane says, pointing at a line of speech that's underlined in red. “This part is still giving me trouble, Darce.”

“Okay,” she replies, eyeing the line thoughtfully. “What if we rework it a little bit?” Pulling the page toward her, she scribbles notes along the line in question. Jane is already nodding by the time she finishes writing, turning to her with a relieved grin.

“Yes, I think that works much better,” she says, muttering the new verbiage under her breath a few times to make sure. “Yes, I like that a lot.”

“Great!” Darcy chirps, already sliding toward her computer to type up the changes and print a fresh copy. “Janie, you're gonna knock their Grandpa socks off.”

With a shared huff of laughter, they get back to work. Darcy barely has a moment to breathe for the rest of the day, as all of their planning and careful preparations come to a head. Bucky texts her once during the middle of the day, a sweet reminder to eat, but she's so caught up in the whirlwind that she forgets to reply.

An hour later, an intern from Pepper’s office brings lunch. A note is taped to the top in Bucky’s distinctive handwriting. _I had a feeling you'd forget_ , is all it says.

With a little smile, Darcy smooths out the note and tucks it under her keyboard for safekeeping. Jane gives her a knowing glance but doesn't say anything, and soon enough they're only an hour away from the presentation. Bucky is no longer at the forefront of either of their minds.

Right on time, Jane is set up in one of the conference rooms and ready to go. Darcy stands in a far corner, there in case of some kind of emergency but no longer really needed. Jane’s got this. Thankfully they work for Tony Stark, which means connectivity issues or technological malfunctions are never an issue, and Jane launches into her keynote speech exactly as planned.

Darcy can finally relax. A minute in, she realizes she hasn’t checked her phone in hours. Sagging into her chair, she glances in Jane’s direction to make sure she’s fine before scrolling through her unread texts. There’s a handful, all from various members of the team and one from Erik. The sight of their encouragement makes her tear up a little, and she decides to show them to Jane later. It’s nice to know they aren’t all on their own anymore.

She reads through them quickly, pausing over the text she was really looking for. It’s only four words long. _She’s gonna do great_. A new text arrives as she reads the first. _You’re both gonna do great_ , it says.

Fingers flying over the little keyboard, she responds, _Everything’s perfect_. Remembering the lovely surprise from earlier that day, she adds, _And thank you very much for lunch_.

_It’s no problem_ , he immediately responds. _I know how completely you get sucked into your work_.

Painfully aware of how little she's gotten to see him lately—quick moments stolen before work don't count—she asks, _Movie night to celebrate? This weekend, sometime?_

Her phone lights up with his reply less than a minute later _. I'll be there._

Satisfied with their plans, she turns her focus back to Jane.

 

* * *

 

The movie night doesn’t happen on Saturday—Jane cashes in a girls’ night as a much-deserved celebration of her conference speech, and of course Bucky says he understands. So, they set up a plan to watch something on Sunday.

“Like a date?” Jane questions tipsily, her head listing to one side slightly as she peers into Darcy’s face.

“No, not a date,” Darcy insists, waving her hands a little too exuberantly and sloshing margarita on the inside of her wrist. Never one to let tequila to go to waste, she licks the alcohol from her arm and somehow manages not to dump her entire drink in her lap at the same time. Three pairs of eyes look at her skeptically. “It’s not a date.”

“Okay.” Pepper seems almost sober, except for the light gleam to her eyes and the uncharacteristic way she draws out the word. “But do you want it to be?”

“Of course she does,” Natasha interjects, taking a shot of vodka and slamming it back. She’s the most sober of them all, and she takes a second to wink at Darcy before saying, “But this night is not about men. We have something to celebrate, don’t we?”

There’s a chorus of cheers, and Darcy reminds herself to thank Nat in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Bucky takes one look at her the next day and chuckles. She half-heartedly swipes at him, but he dodges it easily. “Don’t laugh,” she grouses. “You try keeping up with the Black Widow, Pepper Goddamn Potts, and achievement-drunk Jane and see how you look the next day.”

“I wouldn’t even try,” he admits, striding past her into the kitchen. “But luckily I know the perfect meal to treat a hangover. But first,” he sets some ibuprofen and a glass of water next to her elbow, “take that.”

“You’re a god among men,” she praises sincerely, knocking the pills back with a long drink of water.

“I’m glad you think so, doll,” he says, winking at her as he pulls out the necessary ingredients to make a full brunch. “Now let’s see what we can do for the rest of that hangover.”

They take their time over brunch. Darcy is only just starting to feel back to her normal self—she doesn’t bounce back the way she used to when she was twenty-one—and Bucky seems to be in no hurry to rush through their plans. Bucky won’t let her do the dishes by herself, so they clean the kitchen together in companionable silence before moving to the common room to start a movie.

It’s an old one, something Bucky had gotten excited over a couple of weeks ago, and his eyes light up when the title comes up, and he grins at her. They’re seated in their usual positions on the couch; Bucky in the middle with Darcy and Dodger on either side. As always, the dog’s body somehow stretches out until he takes up a full third of the sofa. Not that either of the humans are complaining all that much.

They get three-quarters of the way through the movie with no issue. And then something happens—she doesn’t know what, whether it’s the soundtrack or a sound effect or the way the light creeps across the room—and Bucky isn’t next to her anymore. Well, he’s physically there. But his mind is somewhere else, somewhere painful. His whole body tenses, and tremors begin to run through his body.

_Okay, Darcy. Think. What did Nat and Sam say about this?_ She starts to slide out from under his arm, and he tenses all over. Maybe he needs the touch, to help ground him.

“Bucky,” she murmurs. “Bucky, it’s Darcy. Can you hear me?” His shaking doesn’t stop, but his head nods ever so slightly. “Okay, good. That’s good. Focus on my voice, okay? Come back to me, Buck.”

His muscles seem to relax minutely, but his breath still saws harshly through the air. She can see Dodger pressed to his other side, nosing under Bucky’s flesh arm so that he’s tightly gripping the dog’s fur. His body shakes a little less intensely, but his breathing is still erratic.

She can’t just sit there and listen to him in pain, but she doesn’t want to make it worse, either. “Bucky,” she murmurs, “is it okay if I touch you right now?”

At first she can’t tell if he’s nodding or trembling, but then there’s a sharp, distinct nod of his head. Slowly, trying her best not to startle him, she takes his prosthetic hand in hers. She’s never been so aware of how easily the thing could tear her apart, but he doesn’t hurt her. Slowly, gently, she brings his hand up and presses it against her chest.

“Can you feel me breathing?” she murmurs, taking deep, slow breaths to demonstrate. “Breathe with me.” Over and over she takes long, steadying breaths, watching as his hand moves with the rise and fall of her chest. After a minute or two, his breathing falls into the same pattern, until the only sound in the room is their synchronized inhales and exhales. She keeps his hand against her chest, trusting him to come back to himself and let her know what he needs.

After several more minutes, he does. She can almost feel the flashback release its grip on him, can feel the way his taut muscles finally relax all the way at her side. Dodger gives a soft whine from Bucky’s other side, and she can see the way his hand has gone from gripping the dog’s fur to lightly stroking it.

“Are you with me?” she finally whispers, still looking at his hand on her chest. A breath shudders out of him, breaking their rhythm.

“I am,” he croaks, throat raspy and raw with remembered pain.

She finally turns to look at him; his eyes are clear, but his face is exhausted. “Do you want to talk about it?” She’s pretty sure she knows the answer, but feels like it’s still important to ask.

“No,” he says. Belatedly, he remembers to add, “But thank you.” She squeezes the metal fingers in her grip and releases them, letting his hand fall between them.

She wants to take him home with her, to cuddle and coddle him until all his nightmares are gone. But that’s not possible or feasible. “Is there anything I can do?” she asks instead.

His answering smile is tired and small, but real. Covering her hand with his and squeezing lightly, he shakes his head. “I’m alright, Darce. I tend to get real tired after these ‘episodes’ or whatever, though. Do you mind if I catch up with you another time?” With a regretful jerk of his chin toward the screen, he shifts away from her to get up from the couch.

“Of course not,” she says, standing up as well. His eyes are still on hers, and she gives him a reassuring grin. She isn’t offended at all; if anything, she’s impressed by how well he knows his own needs. It’s very different from who he’d been when they first met. “Are you up for a hug before you go?” She keeps her posture light and easy, letting him know she won’t be offended if he says no.

His smile softens at the edges, and some of the exhaustion seems to slip away from his face. “Always,” he promises, opening his arms wide and folding her into them. Bucky’s arms are solid and his hold is gentle, as always. But after a second she pulls away, feeling the exhaustion that seeps through his bones and makes his arms tremble.

“Get some sleep, Bucky,” she says, brushing a hand across his face to sweep his hair out of his eyes. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” His callused index finger rubs a small circle around the little indention on the inside of her wrist. Her eyes flutter, and she has to fight against closing her eyes in pleasure.

“Okay,” he whispers, and drops his hands. As he steps away, a cool rush of air hits the front of her body; she hadn’t realized they were standing so close. “I’ll text you, probably tomorrow.”

She nods, not sure she believes him. And then he and Dodger are gone, padding quietly down the hall.

 

* * *

 

_Hi_.

That’s all the text says—not that she’s complaining. She half-expected it wouldn’t come at all. Darcy putters around her kitchen, setting the coffeepot to brew as she figures out what to say in return. Eventually she settles on a simple, _Hi back. How are you feeling?_

Her phone chimes as she’s snagging the creamer out of the fridge, making her smile. Bucky has had no trouble at all acclimating to 21st century technology, and she wonders how badly Steve struggled with the same. A part of her wishes she’d been there to see it. She picks up the phone, and sure enough it’s from Bucky. The smile on her face grows, and her stomach flutters a little bit. _A little groggy, but I’m okay, doll. Sorry I had to leave like that yesterday._

Her fingers fly across the screen as she types a response. She vaguely registers that the coffee has finished brewing but she ignores it, intent on replying to Bucky immediately. _You don’t ever need to apologize for that, Buck. Your health should always come first. :)_

With that, she sets her phone down and goes to pour herself some coffee. To try and pretend like she isn’t waiting for that next text alert. Her phone chimes again as she’s stirring the creamer in with a spoon; her hand reflexively pauses, but she forces herself to finish the motion before reaching for the phone. She gently blows on the hot liquid and picks up her phone with her other hand.

_I still feel cheated out of movie night. Can we try again?_ Her smile is so wide at this point she feels like an utter idiot, and she’s glad no one is here to see her. With a heart so full it makes her ribs ache, cheeks straining from the force of her smile, she starts to type out a reply. And stops, wondering at the little flutter of excitement that surges through her. Sometime in the last couple of months since her abduction, the gnawing pit of anxiety that clouded her thoughts of Bucky had dissipated.

Genuine happiness and butterflies are all that’s left in its wake, and she feels light and carefree. With a happy hum, she glances at the clock and realizes with a jolt that she’s got to get a move on or she’ll be late to the lab. Dumping her coffee haphazardly into a to-go mug, she darts out the door. As she waits in the elevator, she remembers to text Bucky back. With one hand full of the travel mug and the elevator speeding toward the lab floor, she only has time to send a short text. _Tomorrow night, 7?_

And then, the elevator arrives at the lab floor with a quiet ding. Darcy’s first task, as always, is to check to make sure that Jane hasn’t arrived before her to set fire to the entire building. Jane has arrived before her, but is still operating in the less-dangerous sleepy haze, judging by the slow blink she gives as Darcy enters the lab.

“You’re in late this morning. Good coffee date with Bucky?” Jane doesn’t look up from her print-outs as she talks, but her eyebrow waggle is clear from across the room. Darcy’s mildly impressed that they don’t go flying off her face.

Tossing her purse carelessly on her desk and popping open the top of her travel mug with a satisfied sigh, she takes a large gulp before answering. “No,” she says slowly, not wanting to air Bucky’s dirty laundry. But this is Jane, and she tells Jane everything. “He had a flashback yesterday while we were hanging out. It wore him out, and he had to go back to his apartment.”

At the first sentence, Jane’s head shoots up in alarm. “Are you okay?” she asks, visually checking Darcy over.

Her question is unexpected, and it takes Darcy a second to figure out what she’s talking about. “What? No,” she hastens to reassure her best friend. “It wasn’t like that. He just—spaced out for a second, but Dodger was there. And I was able to talk him through it.” Sam and Nat have been really good about teaching her techniques, once she’d made it clear that she still wanted to be friends with Bucky. They are all better prepared, this time around.

With another sweeping glance from head to toe, Jane cocks her head in confusion. “You’re not upset,” she half states, half asks.

“Well, no. He didn’t—” and Darcy’s brain shuts off, wondering how she could have been so stupid not to realize. She feels like she’s been knocked in the head with a hammer. Thor’s hammer, even. But she doesn’t want to think through all this with Jane staring at her. “He didn’t run away,” is all she says, turning away toward her computer.

She can feel Jane’s eyes lingering on the back of her head, and her friend hums an acknowledgment, but doesn’t say anything else. It isn’t until she hears the clack of Jane’s keyboard that Darcy lets herself reflect on her sudden epiphany.

Because what she’d told Jane was true. Bucky didn’t run away—hasn’t run away. Yesterday, he had trusted himself not to hurt her. He calmly let her know what he needed, had made a promise to contact her when he was ready. But the most important part is that he followed through. The text this morning was simple, but very clear. He’s reaching out again, almost immediately. And she’s certain that he did it as soon as he became sure he’s okay.

She tries to let it go, at least for now, and go back to work. She gets several hours of paperwork done, but it’s like her brain is on a loop. _This is everything you were worried about, Darcy. It came to pass, except it worked out the opposite of what you expected. What are you going to do with that?_ She has trust issues; she knows that. But she’d thought they were justified—and they had been, several months ago when this all started. And she hadn’t believed him when he said things would be different.

But here they are now, and things are different. Bucky panicked last month, when the Avengers were struggling on a mission. He had turned to her, not away. And then the worst had happened: he’d had a full flashback while Darcy was in the room. And he’d needed time to himself, and a little part of her—the part that’s been hovering for months, waiting for the other shoe to drop—thought that this was it. This is the moment that he walks away. But he’s here, reaching out to her and hoping to pull her even closer. He isn’t afraid, not anymore. So, why is she?

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” Jane sighs from over her head, dropping her arms to hug Darcy from behind. “It’s about time for you to finally go and tell him how you feel, don’t you think?”

Blinking back tears, Darcy braces her arms over her friend’s, patting her in thanks. She leans back into the embrace momentarily, but—yeah, there’s too much anticipation and excitement and a sense of surety about her relationship with Bucky. Something that hasn't  ever been there before, and honestly she doesn’t want to waste another minute.

“Go,” Jane orders, releasing her and taking a step back. “Take the rest of the day off.”

So she does.

The trip up the elevator and down the hall to Bucky and Steve’s apartment is a blur. One moment she’s leaving the lab, and the next she’s staring at their closed door. She knocks frantically—this isn’t the time to barge in on him using the unrestricted access they gave her.

A minute passes, then two. Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, and for a moment she worries that she’ll have to explain herself—bright eyes and anxious fluttering and everything—to Steve.

But luck seems to be on her side, because it’s Bucky who answers the door. “Darcy, hey. I didn’t mess up the time, did I?” he asks with a quiet smile. He looks better than he did yesterday, but fatigue still wears at the edges of his face. Suddenly, she doubts her decision to throw this at him so soon after a flashback, and she wonders whether it was a huge mistake.

Some of her panic must show on her face, because he eyes her in concern. “Darcy, are you okay? What’s wrong? Is—” He cuts himself off abruptly as she takes a step forward.

With an aborted gesture toward the shadow of the apartment behind him, she asks, “Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would mean so much if you could leave a comment and let me know what you think. ❤️❤️❤️


	14. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy gathers her nerve, loses it, and finds it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I told you I'd be updating again quickly, but I bet you didn't think it would be this fast. :D
> 
> Only one chapter left, after this. I'm kind of sad to see it go, but y'all have been so patient and loving with this story and I can't bear to make you wait any longer. (if you haven't read the last update--i posted chapter 13 this past Sunday, so don't accidentally skip ahead!)
> 
> After almost 67K words of slow burn, things finally come together, and all I can say is that I hope it's worth the wait. ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> (and thanks, Queenie, for checking over that specific, special section for me! xoxoxoxo this little peanut would be lost in the pod without you.)

“Of course,” Bucky says, a strange mix of relief and panic chasing themselves around his face. It's like he can't decide which one is the correct reaction. And she isn't helping at all, because she's frozen with indecision, worrying that this isn't the right time.

And then his face is cloaked in the shadow of the hallway, and she can't see his expression anymore. Darcy hovers in the doorway, wondering if she's being cruel by dumping all this on him now, of all days.

“Everything okay, Buck?” Steve’s voice sounds from the apartment, and she shuts her eyes in agony. _Of course_. His voice is close, and she knows that on days like these he tends to hover. _Because Bucky isn't at his best_ , a little voice hisses. _What are you doing here?_

“You know what?” she says cheerfully, putting a hand on his arm to stop him from retreating any further into the apartment. “Nevermind. I'm sorry, Bucky, I know you're exhausted today. I shouldn't have come by.” He opens his mouth to say something, probably to reassure her, but she rushes on. “I'll see you tomorrow for the movie, right? Is that still okay?” She just has to keep it together for tomorrow. She can do that. Right?

He looks at her in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment, and she has no idea what he's thinking. Finally he sighs and runs a tired hand through his hair. “Of course, doll,” he says, mustering up a tired smile. “Whatever you want.”

Seeing his exhaustion, she feels justified in her decision not to say anything today. “Can we—can we meet in my apartment this time?” she chokes out. Of all the things she wants to do, giving her confession where any of the Avengers might be around to hear is not at the top of her list.

Confusion flickers across his face quickly, which baffles her in turn. She feels like they're having two different conversations. But before she can dwell on it, he says, “Sure, Darce. That's fine.”

With one last squeeze of his arm, she steps away. “Great. I'm really sorry for disturbing you.”

As she moves down the hall, he calls softly, “You're never a disturbance, Darcy.” It makes her smile, but she doesn't turn back to look at him.

When she gets back to the lab, Natasha is there with Jane. As she walks through the door, Jane cries, “Darce, what are you doing here? I thought you were—” she cuts herself off with a wary glance at Nat, but Darcy waves her off.

“Steve was there,” she explains. “And Bucky still looked so exhausted. What was I thinking?” Her face crumples and her voice breaks on the last word, and Jane gets up to hug her. “I feel so selfish.”

Nat’s chuckle is light and easy, clear of any judgment or mockery. “You finally realized that you’re in love and are ready to start a relationship with him, milaya. There’s nothing wrong with being excited about that.” After a moment, she adds, “But I imagine James is very confused right now.”

Darcy groans in agreement. “I was a total spazz. I made something up at the last second about him coming to my apartment instead of the common room tomorrow, but there’s no reason I had to do that in person, and he knows that.”

Nat shakes her head fondly. “Have a little faith, golubushka. That man has been head over heels for months. He’s not going to run now, when everything is finally coming together.”

The rest of the day passes slowly, and despite Nat’s encouraging words Darcy can’t shake the feeling that she’s made a terrible mistake.

That feeling is compounded the next morning, when Bucky and Dodger don’t show up for their usual coffee date. She lingers in the kitchen until she can’t deny it any longer: they aren’t coming. And then she waits a little more. Finally, with a heavy heart and anxiety roiling through her stomach, she heads to the labs. She’s over fifteen minutes late for work as it is. In the elevator, she can’t help but shoot him a quick text.

_Did I do something wrong?_

 

* * *

 

Bucky startles awake at the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He’s groggy from the disruption in his usual sleep cycle, and it takes him a second to remember where he is. Then Dodger sprawls out alongside his hip and thigh, and he realizes he’s still in bed. The light streaming in from the windows is strange, and he stares at it for a minute before he realizes that it’s much stronger than it usually is. With that thought, the rest of his brain blinks on.

He turns over abruptly, reaching for the phone on his nightstand. Dodger stirs behind him, stretching and yawning, but he ignores the dog’s sleepy morning routine. Because his phone reads 9:25 AM, and he realizes that he’s missed his morning coffee with Darcy. With a sinking feeling, he checks his unread texts—and sure enough, there’s one from her. The doubt clear in those five words has him closing his eyes. Not that it changes anything. The image is seared into his brain: _Did I do something wrong?_

He’s had the feeling that something is wrong ever since yesterday, when she’d shown up at his door and then promptly run off. Even in his memory, he can picture her expression perfectly: a jittery sort of anxiety that makes no sense at all. His first thought had been that somehow the flashback had been too much for her, but then she asked if he was willing to watch the movie at her apartment rather than the common room. Darcy has her flaws, but unnecessary cruelty is not one of them. So, if she can’t stand to be around him anymore, he trusts that she would’ve said so immediately, rather than prolonging it.

But all that means is that he has no idea what the problem is. And there’s definitely a problem, or she wouldn’t sound so worried in her text. He’s pretty sure she was about to tell him yesterday, but then Steve showed up. Hovering over his shoulder as he always does on bad days. Once Darcy had left, Steve apologized immediately for interrupting. Bucky hadn’t had the energy to go chasing after her, though maybe he should have. But he didn’t, and so here they are.

As he sits up in bed, he tries to mentally compose a reply. As much as he wants to ask ‘ _Of course not. What’s wrong?_ ’ that’s something he really doesn’t feel comfortable doing over text message. It might be the norm in this century for people to pour their hearts out to each other over text message, but he would always rather talk to Darcy face to face. He feels more secure, more comfortable, when he can look her in the eyes and read her expression, her body language. Their connection feels stronger to him that way.

With that in mind, he sets his phone aside. He’ll go visit her in the lab—there’s something going on with her, and this needs to be done right. And based on her reaction to him missing their usual coffee, it needs to be done quickly. Mind made up, he goes through his usual morning routine—feed Dodger, take a shower, make something quick and protein-filled for breakfast—albeit at a slightly quicker pace than usual. The familiarity of the tasks sets him at ease, and by the time he and Dodger are ready to leave Bucky feels much more settled and prepared to figure things out with Darcy. If only he had some idea of what the problem actually _is_. That thought sends a twinge of anxiety through his gut, and he shoves it away forcefully. It won’t help anything to think that way now.

On their way down the hall, Dodger padding faithfully beside him as always, Bucky hesitates. If Darcy is truly worried that his missing their coffee routine means that he’s mad at her—and her text indicates that she’s thinking exactly that—maybe an apology gift will show her that it was an honest misunderstanding. If nothing else, he thinks, it’ll make him feel better to bring her something. An excuse to see her—he’s come to rely on their mornings together more than he’s realized.

That settled, he turns to the right to enter the common room kitchen. He feels a twinge of regret as he spots the coffeemaker on the counter, the aroma from its first brew of the day still lingering in the air, but shakes it off. As he waits for the coffee, he runs through different ways to approach his conversation with Darcy. One by one he discards them, and eventually he’s forced to admit that he has no way to prepare for the conversation. Instead, he waits. He’ll just have to rely on their history of open and honest communication and hope for the best.

And then the coffee is done, and he’s added the exact amount of creamer she likes—he’s not sure if there’s anything about her that he hasn’t memorized at this point—and he’s on the way to the elevator. Worry surges in his gut, but he forces it down. It will only fester the longer he waits to talk to her. The elevator dings its arrival on the lab floor, and he steps into the hallway. Sensing his nerves, Dodger sticks close  to him as they walk toward Darcy’s work space. Bucky pats his head gently, grateful as ever for his presence.

Then, he’s outside the astrophysics lab, and he can see her through the glass. When he walks in, Darcy’s back is to him. She and Jane are in some kind of quiet conversation, looking at a tablet. He stands back, not wanting to interrupt and feeling slightly foolish for not asking if it was okay for him to stop by. But Jane spots him and stops speaking to smile cautiously. “Hi, Bucky.”

Darcy’s shoulders stiffen slightly, and once again he wonders what’s gone wrong. But then she’s turning around, and he’s holding out a coffee mug for her. She takes it with a frown of confusion. “I’m sorry for missing coffee this morning,” he says, explaining, “I was still tired, and I overslept.”

A smile overtakes her mouth as she sips the beverage, and he allows himself to think that everything’s alright. “You don’t need to apologize,” she says softly. “Are you feeling okay now?” Her eyes are timid as they meet his, and his hope is dashed. He examines her expression; all he wants to do is fix whatever it is that’s gone wrong.

“I’m fine. My sleep schedule is usually off for a couple of days after—” his eyes dart to Jane, who is studiously examining the tablet and trying to give them space, “—an episode.”

Darcy’s eyes follow his, and she steps away from Jane to approach him. Putting a gentle hand on his arm, she asks her boss, “Janie, is it alright if I step outside for a minute?”

“Hmm? Oh, sure,” Jane says, blinking a few times too many to be believable. She looks up from her work to glance between the two of them. Hesitating visibly, she finally suggests, “Actually, I’m looking at these data and I’m not sure there’s all that much for you to do today—I’ve got to sort through it all first. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Darce?”

Her voice is overly chipper and a few decibels higher than usual—she’s not an especially good actress, all things considered. But the way she and Darcy stare each other down is what grabs his attention. He’s clearly missing something, but doesn’t have all the pertinent information to figure out what it might be. Finally, Darcy breaks the stare with a shrug and turns to him.

“Sounds good to me!” She forces herself to sound cheerful, but there’s that anxiety again, swimming behind her eyes. It’s clear that she’s not telling the truth, either. “Looks like we can start that movie early, Bucky. If you’re up for it?”

He nods but doesn’t say anything. She grabs her purse, and then they head to the door. After a quick goodbye from Jane, they’re in the hall. As soon as the door shuts behind them, shutting out the chance that Jane might overhear, he pauses. Darcy stops as well, looking back at him in confusion. “Bucky?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on his heels and offers, “I don’t know what’s going on, doll, but if you don’t wanna watch the movie after all—” she starts shaking her head vehemently, but he soldiers on, “—then that’s fine. My feelings won’t be hurt.” A white lie, but he’ll force his heartache aside if it’ll help assuage any guilt she might be feeling.

“No, no, no,” she rushes to say, and her hand is back on his arm and she’s looking up at him earnestly. Her blue eyes are worth drowning in, and he’s painfully aware of the fact that they haven’t been this close since that moment in the kitchen a month ago, when he almost lost his head and kissed her. “Bucky, I want to watch this movie with you. I’m sorry, I know I’m being weird.”

He’s brought back to the present as she says his name, and he ignores the second part of her statement—the acknowledgment that something is off with her. She’ll tell him later, he hopes, but he doesn’t want to pry. Like anyone, she’s entitled to her privacy. “You sure?” he can’t help but ask again, needing that little bit of reassurance.

Her smile is real, and some of his anxiety fades when he sees it. Not everything is broken; his Darcy is still there. “I’m sure, Bucky. Let’s go,” she teases. “My couch is much more comfortable than the lab hallway.”

“Amen to that,” he agrees fervently, and she laughs again.

The rest of the trip to her apartment is silent. Darcy is uncharacteristically quiet and reflective; for his part, Bucky is focused on not saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to ruin the slightly more comfortable atmosphere they’ve built between them. Until he knows what’s going on with her, he’d rather not risk it, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

The silence turns to small talk as they prep for the movie in Darcy’s apartment. As she puts some popcorn in the microwave, he asks FRIDAY to queue the movie she’s chosen. It’s not one he’s heard of, not something from before the war. He’s grateful for that; so soon after his flashback, he doesn’t have any desire to take a trip down memory lane.

When she sits, she practically hugs the arm on the far side of the couch, placing the bowl of popcorn firmly between them. That sense of unease builds in his gut again; there’s nothing normal about this. For weeks their interactions have been easy and comfortable, and he’s gotten used to sitting shoulder to shoulder with her on movie nights. It’s disorienting, having so much space between them.

He tries his best to respect her desire for space and focus on the movie, but it’s difficult. The discomfort radiating from her is so strong it’s almost palpable, until he’s choking on it. With a quiet request to FRIDAY to pause the movie, he turns to her and places a careful hand on Darcy’s jittery leg. It finally stills, and she looks up at him fearfully. The sight of it almost tears his heart in two, and he can hardly draw enough air to prompt, “Darcy, please tell me what’s wrong.”

She shifts until they’re facing each other on the couch. Her mouth works, but no sound comes out, and her eyes drop away from his. Withdrawing his hand, he hunts for a way to put voice to the question that burns in his throat. “Did I—did I scare you, the other day?” It drips like acid between them, and as much as his gut roils with the force of it, he wishes he could take the words back. But he can’t, and they linger in the air between them.

Until her eyes snap back to his, and she surges forward. “No! Bucky, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think.” It’s her turn to grip onto him, and she takes his hand between hers. Stroking slightly against his skin—he has to fight not to get distracted—she says, “I’m so dumb. I didn’t even think—”

With his free hand, he reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s alright, doll. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

One of her hands moves to cradle his against her face, and his breath catches in his chest. Her eyes flutter closed, and he can’t tell if she’s savoring his touch or summoning the courage to tell him what’s wrong. The moment stretches and pulls between them, until the air goes stale and his heart pounds ferociously in his chest. He tries to push the dread away and focus on the euphoria from her proximity, but he only partially succeeds.

He doesn’t know why she can’t bring herself to say whatever it is she needs to say, but he can’t handle the silence any longer. “Darce—”

“I love you,” she blurts, and his heart stutters in his chest. He stares at her in shock, and for a second he wonders if he never actually got out of bed this morning. Is he still dreaming? Surely so, and what a cruel dream to have, to put into words all the hopes and wishes he hasn’t even allowed himself to think about in the last couple of months.

But then her face falls, and she drops her hand from his and leans away. Immediately, he chases her, catching her hand in his and leaning forward to catch her gaze. “Say it again,” he begs.

Freezing, Darcy looks back at him. Her eyes are blown wide with fear and the vulnerability in them makes his lungs seize. But he needs her to say it one more time, to make it real. “Please.”

Her eyes close, and when they open again her eyelashes are wet. “I love you,” she whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the dog’s soft snoring at the other end of the couch. His breath stutters in his chest at her words, and he takes a sharp inhale. Dodger shifts sleepily at the sound, pressing along his back and reminding him to breathe.

Never taking his eyes off hers, Bucky lifts Darcy’s hand to his mouth and presses the gentlest of kisses to the back of it. His eyes fall closed at the contact, savoring the feel of her skin against his lips and the imprint she leaves on his mouth. He feels like he’s been branded, body and soul. She’s waiting on him to say something, he knows, but all he can do is revel in the sensation of a love requited. As his lips trail across her hand, pressing quick, fervent kisses along her knuckles, he hears her gasp.

It’s like the sound breaks a dam within him, and all of a sudden he can speak again. “What changed?” he asks, mumbling around her skin. He can’t seem to break away from her, not even long enough to speak clearly.

“Your flashback,” she says, reaching forward to run her free hand through his hair. His eyes fall closed again at the contact, and it’s all he can do to focus on her words. That’s not what he expects her to say, and his eyes flick up to hers. “You had your flashback, and it was fine. Not _fine_ fine,” she rushes to say, “but we were fine. We dealt with it, and you didn’t run away.” Her voice drops to a near-whisper on the last two words, and he finally understands.

She hadn’t been able to believe him before, when he said that he’d learned his lesson and wouldn’t shut her out again. Darcy can be skittish, and she was never going to be able to take something on faith, not after the first time when he so spectacularly fucked things up. But now she knows for sure what he’ll do, because he’d done the right thing without even realizing it.

“And it’s not a knee-jerk reaction,” she says in the face of his silence, “I’ve been in love with you since—I think I loved you even…before. But there was always something holding me back. I couldn’t take the final step. But now…” She trails off, tugging on her hand lightly.

He tightens his grip playfully, looking up at her with a blinding smile. She blinks in the face of it, like it’s something she’s not expecting to see. His heart is light and free, and he almost can’t breathe with the overwhelming happiness that flows through him. But her face isn’t happy or relieved, and he frowns. He’s not sure what’s gone wrong.

At his frown, she says, “Bucky, can you please say something?”

_What?_ Then he realizes, and he wants to smack himself upside the head. If Steve was here, he’d make his friend do it for him. He reaches for her. She comes willingly, finally seeing everything he’s been keeping inside himself for months. Pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, he murmurs, “I love you.”

Peppering kisses across her nose and cheeks, he mutters words of adoration and love with each contact his lips make with her skin, until finally his mouth hovers over hers. His eyes flicker up to hers, checking to make sure that they're on the same page. He huffs a laugh; her gaze is riveted to his lips, and he clearly doesn't need to worry.

“Bucky,” she whispers, never looking away from his mouth, and he's gone. He'd give her the whole world, if he could, just to hear her say his name like that again. And that's the last thought he has before his lips touch hers.

They both tremble at the first touch—there's so much emotion, so much feeling trapped inside the tiny action, and it surrounds them until everything else is drowned out. Shaking with the force of holding back, of making sure he does this right, Bucky strokes his lips against hers once, twice, three times. His mouth memorizes the curve of her smile, the weight of her lower lip against his. 

And then her tongue peeks out, touching the seam of his lips ever so gently, and he's lost. They reach for each other desperately; her hands grip his shoulders and his tangle in her hair, and her mouth opens beneath his.

She's warm and wet and he groans into her, unprepared for the onslaught of sensation. This is something he never dared to let himself to dream about, and he isn't ready for the storm of desire that accompanies the stroke of her tongue against his. Purposely, he relaxes his hold a little, easing the hands tangled in her hair to a soothing stroke instead of the demanding grip he'd had before. His mouth withdraws, too, moving back to press close-mouthed kisses against her lips. Drawing her lower lip between his teeth, he nibbles lightly and whispers, “I love you.”

He might never get tired of saying it, he realizes as he presses tender kisses at the corner of her mouth and along her jaw. She turns her head, trying to deepen the kiss, but he moves back slightly, just out of her reach.

“Bucky?” she asks, and he marvels at the picture she makes, drunk on their confessions of love and still reeling from his kiss. Her eyes are bright and glassy, and the prettiest rosy flush stains her cheeks. Her hair is tousled from his hands, and she's the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen. He stares at her, intent on memorializing the moment in his mind forever.

Her hands squeeze his, and he finally replies, “Just a little fast, doll. We got time, don't we?”

“Yeah, Buck,” she says, following the tug of his hand to line herself up against his side. His arm drops around her shoulder, and she snuggles into him. It's just as satisfying as the kiss, in its own way. “We’ve got time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, it means the world to me to hear what you think.
> 
> if all goes as planned, i will be pulling a very hobbit-like move and treating all of y'all to a gift on my birthday, this sunday. :) hopefully that's when the epilogue will be up. ❤️❤️❤️


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well in true Hobbit fashion, here is my gift to y'all on my birthday. it's as much a gift to myself, really, and we're finally finished with this story. i hope you think that it's a worthy epilogue to the fic--i'm pretty proud of it.
> 
> SMUT WARNING: i know that i initially said that i was going to post the smut separately, but this really felt right to me. it's a complete picture of their relationship as i want to tell it, so i decided to include it in the main storyline. if you don't enjoy reading smut, no worries! just stop reading at the paragraph that starts with "In tandem, they--"
> 
> thanks to queenie for serving as beta for this chapter. love you, lady! all mistakes are my own, though.

The running joke around the tower is that Bucky and Darcy behave almost exactly the same in a relationship as they did before, except with a lot less pining and melancholy looks when the other isn't watching. Tony puts it the most succinctly, saying, “The two of you are a lot easier to be around, now that you've pulled your heads out of your asses.”

So, really, not much has changed. They still make sure to get coffee together in the mornings before Darcy goes to work, and it's still one of her favorite parts of the day. Not least because Bucky somehow figures out that the small untouched bag of expensive Ethiopian coffee in the back of the pantry is her favorite. He starts making it every morning, and she doesn't have the heart to tell him that she saves it for special occasions. And yet, they never seem to run out of the special blend. When she asks him about it, he just offers that shy, secretive smile of his. And when she presses him further, he kisses her so thoroughly that she practically forgets her own name. After that, Darcy decides to let it be, and she starts scouring for little gifts to give him in return. 

He eyes her knowingly when the old-fashioned shaving kit shows up in his bathroom. And when soft, lightweight shirts show up in his dresser, he finds her in the lab and thanks her with a kiss so steamy that Jane outright laughs at them and leaves the room. “I don’t know how you knew that the skin around my prosthetic was so sensitive, doll.” She gasps for air, cheeks flushed and skin tingling underneath his hands and mouth. Murmuring against her jaw, he continues quietly, “I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve you.” In response to that, she pulls him back to her, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

One of the best changes in their new relationship, Darcy decides, is the touching. It's like Bucky has been holding back ever since they met; now that they're dating, now that they're sure of each other, he touches her all the time. And not even in a sexual way, really. He just always seems to need some part of his body to be in contact with hers. As they drink their coffee, his arm is around her shoulders, hips pressed together. When they watch movies or just feel like cuddling on the couch, she's pressed along his side. His hands are always in her hair or tangled with hers, and she's never felt so appreciated. So adored, so  _ seen.  _

They spend most nights cuddled up to each other in one of their beds, kissing and, well, engaging in pretty much every physical intimacy they can practice with their clothes on. The days and nights they spend together feel like part of a dream, and Darcy can’t remember ever being so happy before. There's a part of her that wonders how long this can last, but it's a tiny voice that seems to shrink by the day. 

And with every bad day Bucky has, that voice gets a little smaller. Because he always comes back. As soon as he's ready, he reaches out for her. And she's always there, waiting for him. For every bad day, they have at least ten good ones, and sometimes Darcy kicks herself for waiting so long. When she starts thinking that way or kicking herself too hard, Bucky will cup her cheeks in his hands and remind her, “I wasn’t ready, doll. I wasn’t ready for this. And you weren’t, neither. We needed the time to grow together, to build trust and friendship. And we needed time to do some growin’ for ourselves, even before all that.” And with that snippet of wisdom, she can breathe past the self-doubt—then he’ll kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips, and she loses her breath for an entirely different reason.

But overall, she’s the happiest she’s been in a long time—and certainly the happiest she’s ever been in a relationship. And to be honest, she’s not sure how it can get much better. Well, sex would be nice, for sure. But she understands Bucky’s desire to take it slow, and they’re not in any rush. They’ll get there.

 

* * *

 

She's so content and satisfied with their happy little routine that she's completely surprised when he shakes it up. “Don't make plans for Friday,” he tells her as she drops a kiss on his mouth on her way out the door one morning. She stares at him in surprise—they come together so often, spending practically every night in each other's arms, but he's never formally asked her to reserve an evening for him. 

Darcy is intrigued, to say the least. But even with her cajoling and attempts at seduction, half-hearted as they are considering she's supposed to be on her way to the lab, his lips stay sealed. A glimmer of mischief shines in his gaze as she draws away from his mouth. “As much as I'm enjoying your attempts to convince me to spoil the surprise,” he drawls, eyes dropping to her swollen lips, “you're gonna be late for work here in a minute.”

With a curse, she realizes he's right. As she dashes out the door, she yells, “This isn't over, Barnes!” His warm chuckle follows her down the hallway, and she finds herself grinning for the rest of the day. 

Try as she might, Darcy can't convince Bucky to drop so much as a single hint about their plans for Friday. Her foolproof question of what to wear is met with a simple, “Whatever you want, Darce.” She growls in frustration, and with an upturned tick at the corner if his mouth, he relents, “Nothin’ fancy. Comfortable clothes is fine.” And yeah, that's the information she was looking for, but it isn't helpful in the least. 

On Friday, Jane lets her leave work early, pronouncing her practically useless. There's a twinkle in her eyes as she says it, though, and Darcy doesn't take offense. As she shoos her out the door, her best friend observes, “You're so funny, Darcy. If I didn't know that the two of you had been together for months already, I'd think this was your first date.”

She has a point, and Darcy tries to make herself relax. But she can't shake the feeling that there's something different about this evening, and it's tying her stomach up in knots. The good kind, the fluttery kind, but still enough to make her jittery. As she heads home to shower—Bucky may have said things should be casual, but she’s not going on their date all grimy from a day in the lab—she shoots him a text to let him know that Jane let her off work early.

It takes him almost her entire trip to her apartment to text her back, and she wonders what he’s doing. As she passes his and Steve’s door, she’s tempted to knock and find out. She discards the idea quickly, though; she really is grimy from work and he clearly wants the whole thing to be a surprise. He’s still so reserved sometimes that Darcy wants to encourage these little thrills whenever she can. With that thought, she continues down the hall to her apartment. 

Her phone chimes as she steps inside and toes her shoes off.  _ Perfect. My apartment, hour and a half? _ There's a little kiss-face emoji at the end, which makes her grin. No one would've guessed that Bucky would pick up modern technology so well—no one that is, except for Steve. He loves regaling the rest of the tower with stories of Bucky’s epic nerdiness in the 40s. 

_ Sounds good _ , she texts back, keeping an eye on the clock. She has plenty of time. 

Plenty of time is a little too much time, it turns out. With half an hour to spare, she sits on the couch in her empty apartment to wait. Only to get up immediately, realizing she's being dumb. Just because she has first date jitters doesn't mean this actually is a first date. And there's no way Bucky would rather she sit in her lonely apartment than be with him, even if it's earlier than they agreed. They don't play games—he loves her and he wants her with him, period. He would tell her she's silly for even hesitating, she knows. And with that in mind, she heads toward the door.

She’s no super soldier, but once she steps out her door even Darcy can smell the red chile sauce from her end of the hallway. A grin overtakes her face, and for a moment she’s lost in memories of New Mexico’s baking sun, the dryness of the desert, and the way tequila slides down the throat after a hot day spent installing sensors on the roof of the lab. And then she’s at his door, opening it to step inside. As she heads toward the kitchen, the smell of the Southwest gets even stronger, and her stomach rumbles in anticipation.

When she spots him, all thoughts of hunger flee her brain, and she stifles a surprised laugh. He must hear her anyway, because he looks up from where he's spreading the red chile sauce across a corn tortilla. “You're early!” he calls, delight evident in the pull of his lips and the sparkle of his eyes. At his greeting, the little knot of anxiety in her chest loosens and fades. It's just them, and there's no reason to be nervous. Not with Bucky. 

Dropping his ingredients onto the cutting board, he reaches for her. As always, she goes willingly into his embrace. With a satisfied sniff, she inhales the mouthwatering combination of the food and Bucky’s unique smell. His solid form is too inviting, and with the smell of New Mexico lingering in her nostrils, she can't help but nuzzle into his neck. With a soft sound of enjoyment, Bucky shifts to press a kiss to her temple.

As she pulls away, Darcy presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, reveling in the way he chases after her when she pulls away. “I got ready a little early, and decided to just head over. I hope that’s okay.” As she speaks, she surveys the ingredients he’s got laid out on the counter. It’s all foods that she and Jane consistently had in New Mexico, and her heart skips a beat.

Reeling her back in, he lays a kiss on her that leaves her breathless. “It’s always okay, doll. You know that I like nothin’ better than spending time with my girl.”

She surveys the easy way he moves around the kitchen, and realizes that she’ll only be in the way if she tries to help. Bucky sees her hesitation. With an easy grin, he asks, “You alright bein’ in charge of the margaritas? I know you and Jane are very precise in the way you make ‘em.” With a wry grin, she acknowledges that he’s right.

In tandem, they make dinner. Well, Bucky makes dinner, and Darcy makes drinks. As she cooks, she plies him with margaritas, slightly grateful that his increased alcohol tolerance keeps him sober. Drinks made, she leans against the counter to observe him as he works. Her boyfriend seems to be the most comfortable in the kitchen, has been ever since they met. Even after all these months, it’s something he finds real joy in, and he’s lighthearted and humming along to background music as he works. 

“I fell in love with you over food,” she blurts out—it isn’t what she was intending to say, but it rings with an odd sort of truth regardless. He pauses in the middle of mouthing along to a song and regards her in silence for a moment. She takes him in, too, from the top of his head to his toes. He’s the picture of ease, from his casual man bun, to the  _ Kiss the Cook  _ apron he wears as a joke, to his bare feet. It’s a far cry from the man who cooked for her those first couple of times, and happiness flutters in her chest at the physical evidence of his recovery.

“I fell in love with you just like this,” she repeats, savoring the words as they roll off her tongue. It’s not an accident when she says it the second time, only an unvarnished truth. 

At her words, Bucky’s stare breaks and a smile creeps across his face. It’s beautiful and unguarded, and he looks as though the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “Our meals together taught me how to trust again.” It’s his own confession, but he doesn’t seem disturbed by the way the words linger in the air between them. It’s a simple truth, one he clearly acknowledged to himself a long time ago.

And,  _ oh _ . That’s almost more important, in some ways. And it’s not like she doesn’t know it, it’s just that he’s never said it so plainly before. She watches him cook in silence for a while, not feeling any pressing need to fill the quiet with chatter. Once he’s done and she’s gotten them both a refill, they move to the table.

The stacked red chile enchiladas melt on her tongue, and she lets out an embarrassing groan of satisfaction. Her eyes slip closed as she appreciates the flavors bursting on her tongue, but she can’t help herself. It’s been so long since she’s had anything that tastes like this. When she forces her eyes open, Bucky is watching her with a dopey grin on his face. He doesn’t even look embarrassed when she catches him looking; his gaze stays soft and open, and she’s caught by the pure adoration in his eyes.

Warmth lingers between them, and she's in no hurry to chase it away. But then his eyes drop to her plate and he asks, “Do you like it? Jane gave me the recipe but I'm not sure it tastes anything like what you had in New Mexico.”

At the mention of her best friend’s name, Darcy's curiosity is piqued. But first she rushes to swallow and say, “This is delicious, Bucky. I haven't had anything like it since we left the desert, and I can't tell you how much I missed it.” 

A faint flush warms his cheeks, and a lopsided grin pulls at his mouth. “I'm glad you like it, doll.”

“What made you decide to make it?” she asks, curious at the effort he's clearly put into the meal. 

Bucky shrugs. “Just wanted to make you happy. Show you how much I love you.”

Darcy stares across the table at him, wondering how everything could have worked out so well between them. “You make me so happy.” It's all she can manage to choke around a clogged throat, but he seems to understand. 

That night, she manages to convince him to skip the dishes and head straight for bed, instead. They still don't have sex, but they explore each other's bodies with enthusiasm. With enthusiasm, and love.

 

* * *

 

After Bucky’s surprise Southwest date night, Darcy starts making her own plans. Tony is an unwilling accomplice, at first, but she has ridiculous amounts of leverage over him, what with his workshop being right next to the lab, so he doesn’t have much choice but to help her. And despite all his blustering, she knows he’s really a big softy at heart. 

Case in point: as they finalize their plans, Tony grudgingly concedes that he’s misjudged Bucky. “You’ve been good for him,” is all he’ll say, refusing to make eye contact. But because Tony can’t have people thinking he actually has a heart, he quickly adds, “I’m less worried about him going on a murderous rampage, at least.” He dodges the wrench she throws at him and gasps dramatically. “This is what I get for trying to help you out, huh Short Stack?”

“You don’t have a choice, Tony,” she cackles, an evil grin tugging at her lips. “Unless you want Pepper to find out about that one time when—”

“Alright, alright,” he cuts in loudly, eyes flitting around the workshop nervously, as if his lady love is going to pop out of nowhere. “You’ve made your point. I hope it was worth it,” he finishes ominously, pointing a finger at her. He’s probably already plotting some kind of prank, but she doesn’t care.

And when she and Bucky are lying in bed that night, happily wrapped around each other, she asks him if he’s willing to take a trip out of town with her. With Dodger, of course. He doesn’t even hesitate to say yes, eyes bright with curiosity and excitement, then pauses and qualifies his answer. “As long as my therapist thinks it’s an okay idea,” he corrects. He’s clearly a little embarrassed at having to talk about it—she blames it on the stoic 1940s mentality that sometimes rears its head—but she was expecting that answer. 

With a silent squeeze of her arm around his waist, she presses a soft kiss above his heart. “I was planning on asking Steve and Sam what they think about the idea, if you said yes,” she says, staring up at him from where her head is lying against his chest. He doesn't say anything for long moments, but that doesn't bother her. She knows that he sometimes needs a little extra time to think of the right words. 

His fingers are gentle as they comb through her hair, and she almost dozes off with the soothing rhythm. But then his hands are cupping her elbows, and he's pulling her up to hover over him. Bucky’s lips are soft between hers, and his muttered “I love you” is quiet, meant only for her ears. He doesn't say anything else, but his gratitude and relief are obvious in the shuddering pressure of his mouth on hers. 

Sam and Steve are wildly supportive of the idea, not that she expects otherwise. Although she won't be surprised if Steve suddenly finds a burning reason to be in rural Pennsylvania, so that he can be on call if they need him. Oddly enough, it makes her feel better, and she knows Bucky will appreciate it too. 

A week later, with the car packed up and Bucky getting more and more relaxed with every mile they put between themselves and the city, Darcy feels like she's made the right choice. And that's how she knows that whatever Tony’s petty revenge is, it will be worth it.

They make it to Fiddle Lake Farm exactly as planned despite a late snowfall for the season—spring has already ushered in the first green on the trees, and Darcy watches with interest as they become dappled with white flakes all over again. Knowing how tough it can be for Bucky to put himself into entirely foreign situations, Darcy offers to let him drive. With a knowing glance, he agrees. It works out, because she gets to stare out at the pretty scenery for the entirety of the ride.

When they get there, she discovers that Tony rented out the entire B&B for them. She sends a quick text to Tony—a simple  _ thanks _ —knowing that he’ll never reply. With that done, she puts her phone away. The next four days are for her and Bucky, and she wants to focus completely on him. As she watches him explore their home for the week, she’s glad she put it away. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Not even the way he subtly checks the perimeter while pretending to be simply admiring the view. When he meets her eyes, she offers a knowing grin but doesn’t say anything.

With a wry grin, knowing he’s been caught, Bucky deflects. “So, what’s the plan, doll? What are we doin’ first?”

“That depends. How tired are you?”

His gaze is smoldering as he replies, and her heart thuds in her chest. “I’m up for anythin’ you wanna do, Darce.” She tries in vain to stifle the flush that rises in her cheeks with his implication, excitement threading through her veins and sending all of her senses into overdrive. It looks like they’ll be making that final step in their relationship, and she couldn’t be more ready.

Despite the promise in his words, in the quirk of his lips and the heaviness of his gaze, they don’t do anything but go for a hike in the snow-dusted woods. After dinner, they head outside to the firepit, content to share a seat and look up at the stars. Staring at the sky, Darcy points out the various constellations and at Bucky’s prompting, she finally tells him the story of how she and Jane first met Thor. There’s a sense of intimacy out here under the stars that they don’t have in New York, and it feels a little bit like they’re the only two people on Earth. 

Lulled into a pleasant haze by the view and Bucky’s body heat, Darcy dozes off against his shoulder. In the end, he carries her to bed. She’s too sleepy to do much other than press a series of lazy, grateful kisses anywhere she can reach—his neck, she thinks—and then they’re in bed and she’s falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. When she wakes in his arms, still wrapped in the hazy grip of a restful sleep, she thinks she could stay here with him forever. Just the two of them.

The next day is lazy—they explore the outdoors a little more, but eventually come back inside to cuddle and kiss the day away. It’s after one such kiss, when Darcy is breathing heavily from his mouth on hers and wondering how to suggest that they move things to the bedroom, when Bucky makes the move for her. Shifting, he stands up from the couch and holds a hand out to her. “Are you ready?” His hand is steady and his gaze is warm on hers, and she knows they’re both ready for what comes next.

In tandem, they walk silently to the bedroom. The only contact between them is their entwined fingers, and Darcy savors the feel of his callused hand in hers. When they get inside the room, Bucky kicks the door closed out of habit and turns to her. He doesn’t let the moment turn awkward, which she appreciates. As he’s done a million times before, he takes her face between his hands and draws her into a kiss.

With unhurried grace, his lips move against hers, gripping and teasing until a fire simmers in her core. Lost in his kiss, she reaches for him at the same time as her mouth opens beneath his. His tongue slips inside, stroking and playing against hers until they have to break apart for air. Breathing heavily, Darcy doesn’t let him go far. With a firm grip on the back of his neck, she draws him back in to nibble his lower lip. His scruff burns where it rubs against her mouth, and she rubs her thighs together at the thought of experiencing that sensation in an altogether different place on her body.

In perfect harmony, they shift backward in the general direction of the bed. Breaking away, Darcy reaches to pull her sweater over her head. It’s not sexy or slow; all she wants is to feel his skin on hers. The molten heat in his gaze has her slowing down, though. She can feel his eyes on her as he takes her in, from the shape of her collarbone to the lacy bra she wears. It’s like a physical touch, making her skin prickle. When he begins to unbutton his flannel shirt, never taking his eyes off of her, she shudders.

Her hands drop to unzip her jeans and pull them down her hips, but she stops when he shakes his head. Now shirtless, he moves closer and drops to his knees in front of her. Staring up at her from beneath his eyelashes, Bucky reaches to unbutton her pants. As his hands move, he nips little wet, biting kisses below her navel. The feeling has her closing her eyes and trying not to fall backward into empty air. He has a wicked mouth, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of it.

Cool air hits her thighs, and she looks down to see Bucky sliding her jeans down her legs, until they fall to the ground noiselessly. His hands move with such care, as if he’s memorizing the feel of her beneath his hands, and she blinks back tears. She’s never felt so loved. With a tap to her calves, Bucky coaxes her to step out of her jeans, then does the same for each of her socks. And then she’s bare before him, trembling with want rather than cold. 

With a satisfied smirk, Bucky lifts one leg to hook over his shoulder, causing her to shift and hold on to the top of his head for balance. Casting one heated look up at her, he turns to press a filthy, wet kiss to the skin above her knee. As she gasps for breath, he works his way up her thigh. Nibbling and biting and soothing the skin with open-mouthed kiss until she’s a sobbing mess beneath his mouth. And then his mouth is at the juncture of her hip, and he sucks on the skin there hard enough to bruise. She moans out loud, which catches and breaks when his mouth finally settles exactly where she wants him. With a frustrated, desperate kiss, she shoves him away. Ignoring the throbbing protest of her core, she stumbles backward toward the bed.

He stays where he is, still kneeling on the floor and panting with his own arousal. His eyes are cloudy and confused, and she beckons to him impatiently. “Any more of that and I was going to fall over,” she confesses, which makes him laugh. “I thought a concussion might ruin the mood.”

His voice, when he speaks, is deep and husky. His eyes are riveted between her thighs, and he follows her to the bed without hesitation. “Good thinking, doll.” And then there are no more words. Bucky kneels at the edge of the bed, tossing both of her legs over his shoulders and diving back in. Darcy falls back to her elbows and moans loud and long. She’s momentarily grateful that there’s no one else in the house, but then stops caring at all with the next swipe of Bucky’s tongue. He teases and tastes her until she’s sobbing his name. And then his fingers are thrusting inside her, crooking to rub up against that spot that makes her vision white out. The combination of his fingers and his tongue circling her clit has Darcy spiraling within minutes, and she comes on a cry. 

Bucky’s name is on her mouth like a prayer, and her taste is in his mouth. He kisses her lazily, as if they have all the time in the world. But his arousal is straining against his jeans, digging into the junction of her thighs. Pushing him back to stand at the end of the bed, she unzips his jeans carefully, pushing them down his hips. His cock is swollen and red with want, and she can’t help but press a lingering kiss to the tip.

With a groan, Bucky pulls out of her reach. “Next time,” he promises huskily, pushing her backwards until she’s stretched  out at the edge of the bed. “I wanna feel you around me, the first time,” he whispers, wrapping her legs around his waist and guiding himself until he’s pressed right where she wants him. He hesitates one last time, waiting until she meets his eyes. It’s hard for her to focus, especially when she sees the ruddy flush on his cheeks and his blown pupils. “Are you sure?” he checks, and her heart floods with a love so fierce it hurts.

“Yes,” she mutters, digging her heels into his back, pulling him inside of her. They groan in ecstasy, and Bucky’s eyes fall closed for a second. With slow, purposeful strokes, he thrusts all the way in.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, picking up the pace and changing the angle enough to make her moan. “So fuckin’ good, doll.” His words are almost as arousing as his movements, and Darcy is surprised to find herself moving toward another orgasm.

He sees it on her face, and he grins. “That’s right, Darce. Come for me. I wanna feel you.” As he speaks, he shifts his grip on her legs so that he can slide his hand between them. His thumb finds her clit as he picks up the pace. She tries to keep her eyes on him, but they slip closed as she finds her second orgasm. The waves of pleasure crest and roll through her, less intense but equally enjoyable.  As she lets go, she can feel Bucky’s control snap, and he thrusts into her with sharp, rough snaps of his hips, drawing her orgasm out until she’s seeing stars. She manages to pry her eyes open in time to see him come, and the wonder of it makes her throat go dry.

Sweaty and satiated, she reaches for him and he falls forward to rest his head against her chest. Eventually, he shifts them to their sides, pulling a light sheet up to cover them, protecting their bodies from the cool air. “I love you,” he whispers against her mouth, pressing adoring, sleepy kisses against her lips.

“I love you, too.” She watches him as sleep pulls him under, not quite ready to follow.

Reality is finally better than her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after roughly 75K words, we're done! i would really like to know what y'all think. this is my baby, my first ever WIP. it would mean a lot to me to hear your thoughts. <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as [bloomsoftly](https://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com).


End file.
